The weather has taken a beastly turn. It’s now to the heat level where rivulets of sweat periodically stream from my body. Where everyone, even the freshly showered, smell like a middle school locker room. Where the people who don’t periodically shower can more easily be avoided (except on public transportation) because you can smell them blocks in advance. Where any tight clothing, watchband, purse strap, or waistband becomes a gathering ground for perspiration. And, there is no hope of relief inside. Your options are outside in the breeze and the sun or inside with no sun and no breeze. Air conditioning: not an option.
For this reason, when I came home from the weekly market, I immediately changed clothes. (The old ones were soaked through, anyway.) However, my shorts that I washed just this morning were not dry yet. My pajama shorts are indecent (and I was planning on sitting on the balcony), so I was at a loss as to what to wear. Then, I saw my hub’s plaid pajama shorts. Then, I began hunting for a shirt. An old dingy tank top? Sure. That’ll do. I was now decked out in style.
Today we got a box from the States. My sweet mother-in-law sent my hubby his birthday treats — along with a treat for me. Up until about a month ago, I had never even heard of Crocs. (Thanks, Anna, for enlightening me.) Little did I realize that these foam shoes, available at your local Hallmark stores or wherever, were sweeping the nation. Now I am the proud owner of a sky blue pair of Crocs. My hub has a navy blue pair.
I put on my Crocs and felt the unique tingly massage action of the spikey sole. I examined how they look with the strap up or down. I felt the springy foam beneath my feet. And, I talked with my hub about how these are all the rage in the states. Then, standing in my kitchen in my husband’s navy and maroon plaid Wal-Mart grandpa pajama shorts and a ratty white tank top accompanying my powder blue name-brand Crocs, I told him: “You know, at this very moment we’re cooler than we ever were while we lived in the States.”