Staying cool defeats my weight loss program

I get a kick out of articles detailing supposedly new and innovative ways to “beat the heat.” They’ve been popping up on my social media feeds and in newspapers for a month now, ever since Earth slipped its orbit and began its headlong plunge into the sun. (That’s what I assume has happened.)

It’s 93 degrees outside as I write this. And a few degrees cooler inside, thanks to The Lovely Mrs. Taylor’s new air conditioner and several strategically-placed fans. Still, miserable for anyone who isn’t from the planet Mercury.

Those articles offer all sorts of advice for keeping cool as you go about your day. Splashing water on your face, running cool water over your wrists, fanning yourself in a shady spot beneath a willow tree while a Polynesian girl feeds you peeled grapes. All sound great in print, yet somehow seem too much bother when you’re trying to conduct your work routine.

Also, Polynesian girls are hard to come by in these parts.

As a rule, my own “work” consists of sitting on my expansive backside in front of one of those aforementioned fans with a laptop open in front of me. But every so often, I’m forced (by Mrs. Taylor) to work beneath the open skies.

And by work, I don’t mean typing away while thinking deep thoughts. I mean real work. Man work. The kind of work that ruins your hands and gets your khakis dirty, that leaves you with cuts, bruises, slivers and an aching back.

Yesterday was such a day. It was “only” 90, so it could have been worse. Not much worse – not without the atmosphere bursting into a ball of flame – but still, worse.

Mrs. T wanted another raised planting bed. I’ve built her two already this spring, but she’s decided we’re going to be farmers and real farmers, apparently, have at least three. So hi-ho, hi-ho, it was off to work I go. (Not grammatically correct, but so what, it’s hot. Leave me alone.)

I’ve been trying to use up an enormous stack of scrap lumber left behind the garage by our home’s previous owner. It consists of the remnants of old porch swings, picket fences, a couple doors and other miscellaneous boards and planks. To go through it all, I’d have to build a full scale scrap wood model of the Coliseum, but I figured the garden beds was a start.

I started in the early morning (which for me, in my semi-retirement, means 10 o’clock). I was wearing my already ruined garden pants and an old, button-down shirt over a t-shirt. My lucky fishing hat – which smells like a pail of week-old trout – was perched jauntily on my head.

By noon the button-down was hanging on my band saw, dripping sweat and sawdust onto the lawn. As the temps climbed to 88, then 89, I soaked my hat with the garden hose and returned it to my head, hoping the evaporative process would keep me from melting. It didn’t work, despite what I’d read in a Facebook post.

By 3 p.m., I broke one of my cardinal rules and stripped off the t-shirt. Outside. Something I’ve promised my neighbors I would never do again, not since the case of Mrs. Labowski’s hysterical blindness last summer. I swear it wasn’t my fault; I hadn’t realized things had progressed that far during the winter.

At any rate, I finally broke down and went back inside to change into shorts. After an hour’s more work, even the shorts felt uncomfortable.

I considered just going the full Monty, but was worried I might snag some untoward appendage on a splintery board. Also, I’m pretty sure that, even out here in the sticks, there are rules against nude home improvement projects.

Just before sunset I finished the planting bed. I put my tools away, or rather, dragged them into semi-sheltered areas in case of rain, turned on the sprinkler and lay there in its cooling spray.

I tried to imagine we have an Olympic-sized pool with a cool, crystal fountain at one end. Because of my semi-delirious, heat induced brain warp, this actually worked. At least until the ants started biting me.

This morning when I stepped onto the scale, I discovered I’d lost five pounds. Five pounds, man!

I figure if I do a project like that every day for the next month and the temps stay in the 90s, there may come a time I can take my shirt off in public without blinding the neighbor lady.

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