DON'T COMPLAIN - IT'S A HEATWAVE

Dear Everyone who is gearing up to complain about the heatwave:

Shut up. No, really. Put a cork in it.

We have been under house arrest for months. It's not snowing out (although last winter it didn't really snow at all). Outdoor (and some indoor) dining has reopened. Beer is back on tap. Gardens are starting to produce edible crops. Grills are in high gear. People are gathering (socially distant, of course) inside and out.

Life with and amongst humans is finally mimicking normalcy at its most basic levels.

We just ended a four-day weather pattern that was nothing but storms and rain and flash flooding. I drove through a pond as it formed around my car and barely sputtered through. (Two cars behind me? Not so lucky.) I slept on the futon twice this week because it rained so hard and so often and for so long that the rat-a-tat pounding of the water on the bedroom roof and the air conditioner was like torture. My ear buds have earned their keep allowing me to listen to music instead of thunder, and my tablet has brought television into my life without worry of a lightning strike blowing the whole system when the electricity surges.

So, please, don't complain about the heat. Don't whine about the sweat marks under your armpits. Don't curse the hot car seat when you sit your ass down and the skin sears off. Don't compare the sidewalk's reflective scorch with the Sahara. Don't make cracks about frying eggs on the road (you can do it, by the way, because the tar really does get that hot). Don't pick your damp wedgie, don't yank on your soaked bra, and don't flap your long hair off your disgustingly sweaty neck or forehead.

Just look at the sun in the sky and the temperature soar and say, "Thank you, Summer. Thank you for letting me get outside and pretend life is the same as it always was." We may be stuck with limited physical travel, but it's days like these that restore our mental travel.

Welcome, Heatwave. Bring it. Show me what you've got.