It's Too Freaking Hot. There, I said it.

Those who know me, and know me well, understand that I am not a summer person.

Don't get me wrong; I love summer. I love the no homework, I love having days with nothing on the calendar, I love letting the kids sleep in. But the weather?

I'm not loving it.

I'm good for a while, for the first few days when the 70's turn into the 80's. When you're still able to keep comfortable with all the windows open, and there's still a nice little breeze at night. And I'm even ok when the 80's morph into the 90's. For a little bit.

Believe it or not, I'm even fine for the first few days of 90+ degrees with humidity. I enjoy the sudden suppleness of my skin, the lovely curls in my hair and watching my dog seek out vents to lay in front of. I like commiserating with my fellow Minnesotans: "Whoo boy, it sure is hot out, isn't it?" "Oh yeah, you betcha. Hotter than hell, don't cha know."

But...I start to go insane, very slowly, so slowly that even I miss the signs at first....when it stretches on. And on. And on.

When we're on day 14 or so with temps in the upper 90's and that awful tropical humidity.

When you wake up and every single window in your house looks like the windows of that car in Titanic, the one where Leonardo and Kate were getting it on and all we saw was a palm, slapped onto the dewy glass.

When you walk outside and start to wonder if mayhap you are becoming asthmatic. Because it's HARD TO BREATHE.

When you suffer from what I have coined "Delayed Reaction Sweat". This happened to me last night. A friend of mine had a birthday party at one of the fabulous restaurants in a booming little section of our town. I went from an air conditioned house, into my air conditioned car, walked maybe 4 minutes from the parking ramp to the air conditioned restaurant. Sat and gabbed for a bit, all was fine and dandy. And then I started sweating profusely. Sweating like Michael Moore's inner thighs swathed in corduroy.

I felt little beads of moisture begin forming on the back of my neck. Then a little uncomfortable swampy feeling in the armpits of my tunic. And then, oh yes, and then the trickles down my back. My Spanx camisole felt even more binding, more oppressive than usual, and I cursed my extra pounds for forming a small gulley between my hips. I began to wonder if the sweat on my back was visible, or if it was still contained between the layers of spandex and cotton.

I resisted the urge to wet some napkins in my ice water and tuck them in my now moist cleavage. I could not, however, resist the urge to take said napkins and dab at the perspiration that was now dripping down my neck.

Yes, last night I became one of those ruddy cheeked, plump women who wipe off their sweaty bodies, in public, with a paper napkin.

One of the few benefits of getting older is that you no longer give a shit what anyone thinks.

So I dabbed and dabbed, all the while chatting and laughing, and yes, that was me sucking on the ice cubes from my margarita. Maybe next year I'll kick it up a notch and take one of the ice cubes out of the glass and rub it all over myself like Mickey Rourke did to Kim Basinger in 9 1/2 Weeks.

When it's this hot and muggy out, I start to fantasize. I get a smile on my face as I remember shoveling snow, warming up the car, scraping glaze ice off of my windshield.

I dream about a time when money is no object and I am able to turn the air conditioning down to 65 on days like this. I picture myself, wearing a sweatshirt and fleece pajama pants, standing in front of the big picture window in the living room and giving Mother Nature the finger.

Yes, I know. I know this will be over soon, and the leaves will start changing and I can dig my beloved hoodies and sexually ambiguous fleece jackets out of retirement.

But for now, it's just too freaking hot.

Stay cool, my friends.