“Honey, it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.”
That’s not just a saying in the South – it’s a warning.
Everyone who lives here knows we pay for those mild winters every summer. You don’t notice it in January when you’re wearing a light jacket and feeling smug watching people up north using snowblowers to clean off their driveways. Or in mid-February when you spot one of your neighbors in shorts and a T-shirt washing their car.
But come late June, the bill comes due. And when August rolls around, we’re just trying to make the minimum payment so we can get through a trip to the mailbox.
People like to brag that we can play golf 11 months out of the year down here. That’s true.
The 12th month is August, when even the golf balls stay in the bag out of self-preservation. By August, we’re not living in hot weather. We’re living in a crock pot.
I’ve been to Arizona when it was 105 degrees. And yes, that’s hot. However, it’s not a “why is the air angry?” kind of heat. I’ll take 105 dry degrees in Arizona over 90 degrees with humidity in the South any day of the week. Out there, it’s like standing in an oven. Down here, it’s like being slowly poached.
The difference is the humidity. Our air is already saturated with water vapor like a sponge that has reached its limit. So, when you sweat, it doesn’t evaporate. It just sits on there. As a result, you don’t cool off, you marinate.
And you sweat everywhere, not just the usual places. Places on your body that you didn’t even realize had pores suddenly join in. You walk outside for 30 seconds and come back in looking like you’ve just completed a triathlon no one invited you to.
Simple tasks become ordeals. Taking out the trash feels like an expedition in the Amazon rainforest. Walking to your car requires a recovery period.
And getting into that car is an adventure all its own. The steering wheel feels like it’s been preheated to 400 degrees. The seatbelt buckle doubles as a branding iron. And the seat? That’s less a seat and more a cast-iron skillet. By the time the air conditioner finally kicks in, you’re asking yourself, “Why did I insist on the black interior?”
And then there’s New Orleans, which may be the gold medalist of humidity. It’s a whole different level of summertime misery. Since it’s flanked by a river, a swamp and a lake, the air just sits there like it has nowhere else to go. Walking outside feels less like stepping into weather and more like entering a broth.
The heat and humidity don’t just affect you down there. They attack. You can actually watch an assault on a person in real time. I once saw someone step out of an air-conditioned building looking confident, put together and ready to face the day. Three seconds later, it was all over. Their glasses fogged, their clothes surrendered and their hairdo collapsed. New Orleans is the only place I know where a hairstyle has the lifespan of a mayfly. Forget the hairspray, use polyurethane.
Southerners learn to adapt. We plan our day around shade and air conditioning. We move slower and talk slower – not because we’re lazy, but because speed leads to sweating, and sweating leads to regret. We become experts in identifying the shortest distance between two air-conditioned spaces.
We also develop a kind of quiet pride about it. Surviving a Southern summer becomes a badge of honor. Anyone can handle a dry heat. That’s amateur hour. Real toughness is standing in a parking lot in July while the asphalt feels like hot pudding, and trying to remember why you came to the store in the first place. In the meantime, your shirt slowly bonds to your back.
And yet, every year, we act surprised. Like somehow this summer will be different. Maybe milder. Maybe less…aggressive. But it never is. The heat shows up right on schedule, bringing the humidity along with it like an unwelcome cousin at a Thanksgiving dinner.
By August, we‘ve all reached a kind of understanding. We don’t fight it anymore. We accept it. We nod at each other in quiet solidarity, united by damp collars, wet armpits and the shared knowledge that this, too, shall pass – eventually.
Then one morning in late September, you step outside and something feels a little different. The air is lighter. You can breathe again. Your clothes don’t immediately cling to you like plastic wrap. And for a brief moment, you remember what it feels like to be comfortable outdoors.
Every year, when that first cool morning shows up, we step outside, take a deep breath and say the same thing:
“That wasn’t so bad.”
Which is how you know we’ve learned absolutely nothing.
Joe Hobby is a barbecue-loving comedian from Alabama who wrote for Jay Leno for many years. Find more of Joe’s stories on his blog: www.mylifeasahobby.blogspot.com. Follow him on Facebook at Joe Hobby Comedian-Writer.
