Hazy heat blurs the green tree leaves, the stillness of the air stifles. Memorial Day evening—hot, humid, muggy…all those summer words associated with living in the South. Now, when it is this hot, I usually have my day all planned out—sit on my ass, in the A/C, and read. A lovely reading chair, books to finish and begin, and access to ice, but Little League games interfere with my perfect plan.
So, Plan B: lawn chair, battery powered fan, book(reading The Great Gatsby), and Moleskine notebook. I’m somewhat famous for bringing books and writing materials to just about every potentially boring event(a.k.a when my child isn’t playing, doing, etc. I really only care about watching my kid).
Simply put, I dislike being bored.
But then the sun blares down upon the pages, my hands sweat from holding the pen, and I’m forced to watch the game, or better watch the parents at the game. I squirm from the excess sweat hoping that when I get up from the chair that I don’t look like well…I have incontinence issues. It was really that hot, I promise. I looked like a hot mess.
That’s when it starts again.
My people watching diversion turns into compare myself to everyone else obsession. Other mothers with perfect air, lovely brown tans, sporting their spaghetti strapped tank tops. None of them playing the “check your shoulder for the bra strap” game. Aww, shit, I’m looking down at my legs white wishing I had worn shorts more before this evening. Of course, their perfect children ate perfectly well-balanced meals before the game while mine will eat what I can quickly throw together after the game.
I’m slowly wilting under the intense heat of comparison. Worst, I’m doing it to myself.