I was told it would be cold in the North

I was told it would be cold in the North.

I want to be explicitly clear in what I am going to say next:

Literally (and I do actually mean literally, in the actual, literal sense and not in the figurative, hyperbolic sense), literally every single person who found out that I was going to move to Syracuse this year commented on the weather. Every. Single. One.

"Oh, man, I hope you like snow!"

"You'd better get yourself a winter coat!"

"It's gonna be soooo cold!"

"Those winters are nasty!"

"Good luck with that ice!"

The list of different ways to say "upstate New York is cold in the winter" goes on and on.

Now, I fully recognize that the tone of this post is somewhat agitated. A little peeved. Just a touch mad. I want to be clear in saying that my anger and frustration is not directed at the people who commented on the wintery weather in Syracuse.

No, my touchiness is directed entirely at the incompetent weather god who is presiding over the Empire State. My displeasure is solely pointed at the false expectations I was fed when I visited Syracuse in March and it snowed two inches. My irritation is directly aimed at whoever was responsible for the grievous miscalculation in the sun's intensity over the place where I'm currently sweating. Am I using too many words? I feel like I'm using too many words. In short:

It's freakin hot, man.

The highs of this week have been in the 90s and the humidity is enough to make a fish cry. I thought, after a year of walking up the hill on Hillsborough Street at UNC (which is approximately a 70 degree angle, measured by Satan's protractor), that I was through with showing up to class drenched in sweat. That is not the case. To paraphrase a quote from Simon and Garfunkle, "Hello backsweat my old friend/ I've come to soak in you again."

In all seriousness, I was not prepared for this heat. I mean, I was prepared-I spent my entire summer outside, running around, getting "tan" (read: slightly less pale). Before I started working at camp, I was in the Bahamas, roofing in direct sunlight (in long pants and long sleeves no less, because my skin is genetically predisposed to sizzling like bacon when exposed to UV light). And yet I'm still shocked every time I leave my apartment and am greeted by a wave of just the hottest heat.

Writers describe heat as "oppressive" all the time, but I swear that these temperatures are trying to take over Syracuse's campus and rule with a dictatorial fist. It's ridiculous. And the thing that has me most worked up is that it was even hotter in Canada.

Last weekend, Logan (bless her Southern-belle heart) flew up to visit me in Syracuse for the long weekend. That Saturday was spent at the State Fair (which is held in Syracuse for reasons that I can't begin to guess. It's not the capital. It's not the biggest city. It's not the fairest of them all. Why is it here?!). And it was hot, sure, but that's kind of what you expect when you go to the fair. Muggy air! Stuffy tents! Greasy food! People who are all up in your personal space! Heart! With our powers combined, we are AN AMERICAN STEREOTYPE!

The following Sunday, Logan and I decided that we were going to drive to Canada. We were within driving distance of Canada, so why not? We figured we'd get up early, drive to Niagara Falls, spend a pleasant day on the lower brim of America's hat, then come home. Little did we know…

Canada, the land of Mounties and moose and maple syrup, was hotter than Hades. It was disgustingly, dehydratingly hot that day. Logan and I were both wearing jeans-foolish, I know, but we thought "Hey! We're going to Canada! Everything is pleasant up there, so the weather should be, too, eh?"

I swear to Her Majesty the Queen that I felt like I was walking around on the surface of the sun. It was miserable. I mean, it wasn't miserable because we were in Canada and how could you be miserable in Canada, but it was pretty darn uncomfortable. It was beautiful and awe-inspiring, but uncomfortable. Watching thousands and thousands of gallons of water gushing past you really makes you conscious of just how thirsty you are.

It was HOT. Much like the New York State Fair, the area was crowded with people. Unlike the New York State Fair, we didn't walk into Canada expecting to be sweating balls of sweaty sweat when we left. It was an entirely unwelcome surprise (not to mention that the cheapest bottle of water we could find was $3.00. Ugh.).

I keep waiting for the cooler weather to come in. People have been talking about how great it is to go apple-picking in the fall, how the leaves should be changing soon, how pumpkin-spice everything is back at Starbucks. And I'm just off on one side in a tank top and shorts, sweaty and fanning myself with a newspaper and quietly brooding in the lies that make everything feel just a little bit hotter. I feel like a grinchy, sticky, dehydrated Cindy-Lou Who: Where are you autumn? Why can't I find you? Why have you gone away?

I know that soon enough, the leaves will fall off of the trees and the boots and scarves will come out and my insatiable thirst for hot chocolate will rear its ugly head again. But until then, I'm just going to sit here in my air-conditioned apartment, sulking until I no longer have to worry about pit stains or heat indexes. One day my breeze will come.

End log.

Post-Log Update:

I wrote this post in the middle of the week, when I felt like I was on Alderaan as the Death Star was blowing it up. While it is still a bit sticky outside, the temperatures have levelled out to a more seasonally appropriate…uh…level. So I guess you can disregard everything I wrote above. Awkward…