Reviewed: July

It's so not fair that a grumpy (not even) two weeks can ruin a whole month. And I'm still on the path of misery, since I said I was going to go to the gym today and I still didn't do it. I suppose I still could, but that might put me in a better mood and I'm so cranky I can't imagine being in one. It was a little under two weeks ago that I got back from a really great vacation in Florida and wish I was still there.

July is usually one of my favorite months. Nice and hot and you go on vacation or you think about vacation and you sometimes even do things you don't usually do, like outdoor concerts or playing frisbee. You get to wear sundresses! And sandals! And sunglasses (RayBan tortoise-shell wayfarers--exciting!) And at night when it cools down a bit you roam around the city and it's different and you love it and you think it will never feel the same again...but then the very next night when it cools down it does, and that's an even better feeling.

This is the first July that I've started to feel old. Not old old. But you know, like that shelf on your shoulders now holds a lot more stuff. And then yesterday after 8 hours on my feet at work I noticed that my heels were dry. This morning when I shamefully (vainly) confessed to Joe he joked, "Uh-oh, do you need a ped-egg?" Ew! No way!

The point is, it's not something I ever had to worry about. For one thing, for seven years I lived an hour from the beach where the natural wonder of sand kept my soles youthfully soft. (I miss the beach.) But now I get it why they do all that buffing and lotioning and heel waxing in a pedicure, and not only do I get it but I friggin' need it. I remember my mom complaining about this fact of nature, buying fancy lotions to rub on her feet, but it was one of those things I only half-heartedly listened to. Advice I didn't need.

July, you jerk. Or maybe, it's just New York. All that walk, walk, walking around and then walking around some more. When it's hot I'd rather kill myself than descend into the smothering heat of waiting for the subway underground. Ick. I miss the Julys of my youth, driving around the midwest in my oil-slurping old jeep with the top off, playing stupid cat-and-mouse games with idiot rednecks, laughing it up like we were so above it all, and most of all, that long drive home alone, through the cornfields and the crickets and up the gravel driveway to my house where everyone was asleep, and I'd turn off the engine and walk inside and the stars would be so crazy up there and bright like hell.

Aw jeez, it's 70 stars for the difference of 8 million more people and 10 years later.