Oh, My-lanta, it's hot in Saint George, Utah. Hot doesn't begin to describe the heat down there. People can say what they want about it being a "dry heat." Hot is still hot.
I totally get the comparison of dry heat and moist heat. Growing up in Virginia, we had heat that was exponentially more uncomfortable because of the freakishly high humidity. I thought people were exaggerating about the south having days of 100% humidity without rain. It turns out this is actually possible. Google it for yourself. I'm not going to spend any more time on the explanation. Trust me on this one. I'm a southerner; I know humidity.
Utah has been my home since 1979 when I was a college freshman at Brigham Young. I missed my family; I missed home; I missed friends. I have never missed the humidity. I remember the last weekend of September my freshman year, my dad reported that the month had had 29 out of 30 days of rain. No, I didn't miss the humidity or the rain. I have liked living in the desert.
As visiting guests when we go see my married kids in Saint George, we don't have the privilege of covered parking. We don't visit very often in the summer; not because of parking issues, of course, it's just so terribly hot.
Any time I get into my car when it's been sitting in the sun, I take notice of the sensations. When I close the door, I am aware of just how thick hot air is. It is almost difficult to pull it into my nostrils or mouth to inhale any oxygen. The heat waves wiggle upward off of the hood of my car. My eyes feel like they are instantaneously drier. I gingerly take my seat belt buckle into my hand, taking care not to allow the metal to touch my skin. If it did, I am sure I would hear it sizzle. As quickly as I can, I start the car and roll down the windows, hoping the A.C. will help push the suffocating heat inside out to the miserable heat outside.
Bridger and I were visiting recently on a hot August weekend. In anticipation of the day's sky-rocketing temperatures, I had donned my lightest weight capris. My great idea in the morning backfired in the afternoon when I plopped down on my extremely hot leather seat in my Sonata.
"YIKES!!! That is hot. Hot! Hot! Hot!" I jumped back out of the car. The thin fabric helped not one bit to protect my butt from the stovetop that was my seat. Bridger suggested we give the air-conditioning a chance to work. Smart boy. While we stood outside baking in the sun, I dug around in the trunk and found my old towel I keep for wiping down the car. I placed it on the blazing hot leather. It did a good job of protecting my backside from further burning.
Whether it's a dry heat or a damp heat, we can all agree that 115 degrees is hot. I LOVE summer. I LOVE seeing my kids. I LOVE Saint George. But it goes without saying that I am looking forward to visiting them this fall even more, when the thermometer reports a little more temperate temperature.