The local news cycle has transitioned from riots to the heat wave. We got bitchslapped by a long-overdue blastfurnace of Summer. Late August? I’ll take it! There has been very little wear-and-tear on my AC unit this year and I’m delighted.

We’re also in a cycle where either the heat is brutal, or it’s raining. Heat-rain-heat-rain.  I mentioned yesterday that this cycle was making my grass ridiculously stimulated, but it made the mowing of same difficult.  Either mow in the rain or mow in the heat.

I stood up from the computer after yesterday’s post, dressed out, and said, “Fuck it. I’m going to mow now, even if it kills me.”

And so I did. And so it did. I’m getting up there in years. I was a steamy swampy mess after an hour and fifteen minutes of pushing stamped iron in circles under a sweltering sun.  I felt every step of it when I was done.  I was dizzy. The dog came out for her standing 5:30 kickball appointment, and I kept missing the ball. It was like a dream. How did that stupid ball keep moving from side to side when I tried to tee off?

I leaned under a cold shower. I was still sweating. I stayed under that cold shower for fifteen minutes. I was still sweating through the onslaught of cold water.

Lots of Gatorade and a couple fingers of ill-advised Scotch for a nightcap, and I recovered enough to get a good night’s rest.

Alas, I awoke to what must be the worst hangover I can remember.  As soon as I stepped into daylight, I felt the urge to hurl. The alarm on my iPhone was an icepick into my brain. The smell of brewing coffee triggered a gag reflex.

I kept thinking to myself, “Really? Really?  Two shortglasses did this to you? Really?”

Naw. I’ve got the remnants of heatstroke.  I pushed it “up to the line” and thought I got away with it, but my skull today is telling a different narrative.

It is late in the afternoon and the backdrop of my laptop still seems too bright. I don’t like feeling mortal. I don’t like feeling old. I don’t like being beholden to my years.

But I hate autumn. God damn I hate autumn. I’d rather live in the boiler room of the Sun than walk through falling leaves and brisk temperatures.  The depression of another year come-and-gone is more brutal than any heatwave. Autumn triggers soulstroke, and there’s no WebMD page instructing how to recover from that.