Pgh Lesbian Correspondents

The humidity, this version of humidity seeping into our sanity right now, making us uncomfortable in our own skin.

Everything, every word, every glance weighed down by the dew that lingers into all of the corners. It’s oppressive, slowly sucking daily activities into unfamiliar langorous rhythms. It is arduous and ardently driving us all mad.

You can get used to it. I lived in Baton Rouge, Louisiana for three years. Humidity took no prisoners, melding with my pores and changing my DNA until I could smell rain a million miles away. Which it never was in Louisiana.

When did my DNA reset?

That was 30 years ago. I’m far less likely to chase away Southern Gothic noir reminders with cold beers and afternoon sex.

Today, I repotted flowers. I began cleaning my room, wiping away the weeks worth of detritus with a cleaner that filled my room with lemon and mint – just need rum for a nearly perfect antidote to languor.

I started a thousand tasks, chasing a futile bare minimal sense of accomplishment. Hence, a blog post about humidity.

I feel uncomfortable enough in my own skin every day. Struggling against pressure in the very air I need to breathe feels hopeless, endless, perhaps inevitable. 

Too many days in this state of yearning for release, both physical and emotional is risky. Especially for someone with disordered moods. Disorderly moods? My younger self would have made reckless decisions to shed this uncomfortable skin. Hindsight coils around me, nudging me toward similar choices that my additional years know damn well will not resolve anything.

Humidity is happening around me, changing me and the world. The climate we disrupted alters our DNA.

It is the heat and the humidity.