The Summer of My Discontent

Wendi Aarons swelters under the Texas Heat Dome.

It’s hot. It’s been hot. It’ll continue to be hot. I don’t know when it won’t be hot. We’ve been living under something called “The Texas Heat Dome” for weeks. It’s a ridiculous term, and also what my nickname will be if I ever join a menopausal roller derby team. “Awwww shit y’all! The Texas Heat Dome just rammed her wheels into Killer Karen’s eye sockets to win the game! Wowee! Is there, um, a medic in the house?”

Forget it. That sounds exhausting.

“Are you having a hot flash?” I ask myself all day long. “Or did you just walk outside for two seconds?”

“Shut up and get me some water,” I answer myself. “I could fry a fucking egg on my forehead right now. Maybe bake a loaf of bread in my yoga pants.”

The heat’s making me say gross things.

I need to escape. I need to jet off to Europe like 99% of Instagram. I want to take a boat ride in Capri. Or in Portofino. Or on the Amalfi Coast. Where is the Amalfi Coast? I have no idea. Probably somewhere near Amalfi. I want to take a photo of my hand smugly holding gelato. And another photo of myself in a chunky Italian wool sweater. And maybe one with a confused local cheese shop worker named Vito. I’ll post them all with the caption, “Caio, bella! #italy #suckitAmerica #brrr #blessed #howisthismylife” on my page and won’t even give a shit when I get 100 comments telling me that I misspelled Ciao because guess what bitches? My underboobs won’t be sweaty.

I ask my husband to book a trip. “You’ll love it, I promise!” I gush. “We can’t stay here any longer. It’s too hot. It’s too humid. There’s nothing to do besides complain, age poorly, and watch our landscaping die leaf by leaf. Look up flights to Amalfi. The one with the coast.”

He doesn’t seem sold, so I double down. “I’ll buy you pasta! I’ll buy you wine! I’ll buy you a t-shirt that says ITALIAN STALLION but ironically because you’re of Scandinavian descent with maybe a dash of German? I keep telling you to do that DNA test but you won’t because you don’t want to be in the Mormon database but really, is that so bad? Salt Lake City was only 75 degrees today. Try to get a direct flight!”

Ten minutes later, we see that our best option is two $3,500 one-way flights to Rome with layovers in Taipei City and Oslo. We’d arrive in Europe sometime in November.

“That works for me,” I rally. “Just in time for the Christmas markets. Let’s book it! It’ll be so much fun. We can sightsee, and yell at Italians in English because that’s the best way to get them to understand what we’re saying, and take moonlight strolls through the charming cobblestone streets wearing Texas Longhorn sweatshirts so locals run up to us and say, ‘Texas, pow pow!’ with gun fingers. It’ll be magical.”

I interpret his silence to mean, “Hmmm, keep talking, my love” so I continue. “I’ll carve our initials into the side of the Roman Coliseum with my Volvo keys then shrug, ‘What? I had no idea this is an old building’ when I’m arrested. I bet Italian jails have great meatballs. Or, if it’s cheaper, take me to Egypt and I’ll scratch GO TUT YOURSELF on an ancient tomb then shrug, ‘What? The Luxor in Vegas had no problem when I did this to the Egyptian Pharoah Jackpotpalooza slot machine’ when I’m arrested. I bet Cairo jails have great kebabs. Listen, man, I’ll deface anything in the world for you if it gets me out of the triple digits. What’s today’s temperature in Stonehenge? Is there a light breeze?”

The bad news: He refuses to book a flight.

The other bad news: He tells me it’ll be 98 in Rome this week.

The good news: He clicked the A/C down by two degrees.

I slink away and spend a few minutes pouting and scrolling Instagram. I see that my nice neighbor Patty is skydiving in the Maldives. My mean neighbor Megan is spelunking in Reykjavik. My weird neighbor Jackie is, well, that idiot’s being catfished in Morocco by a man she thinks has six-pack abs but who is actually a shut-in cat lady named Fatima, but at least she didn’t burn her thighs on her hot as balls car seat like I did yesterday. Jealousy courses through my veins. I decide to take action.

“I’m going on a solo trip so I can take a few thirst trap photos!” I yell to my family from the front door. “Hasta la vista, suckers! Don’t wait up for me because I may be gone for weeks! Months! Or at least until 90 Day Fiancé comes on in an hour, so nobody take the TV, I’m serious. No, really, I’m super invested in this season because there’s, like so much drama! Anyway, farewell and good-bye, sweathogs! I’m off to cooler climes and better times!”

Do you know that Texas grocery stores have super cold air conditioning, and that they sell Italian gelato? And that if you hold your camera the right way, the neighborhood retention pond kind of looks like the Tyrrhenian Sea? The Texas Heat Dome does.