by Brenda Roger
Perhaps you’ve heard me say that caffeine and Clorox are my only real friends. I came up with this theory years ago while cleaning my hundred-year-old house. I decided that caffeine and Clorox both delivered broad-sweeping, dependable results, and could therefore be relied upon with more confidence than most people. This week I added a third friend to my list.
Here in Pittsburgh, summer just refuses to end. The horses are growing their winter coats. The trees are turning bright colors. The days are shorter. Still, everywhere I go, and everything I do, my clothes are stuck to me. Sweat runs down my back and trickles along my sternum. It’s most unpleasant. I won’t even bother to recount the wardrobe challenges in my fall social calendar thus far. Worst of all, my make-up just melts on my face.
I am tired of walking in the door after hours of laboring under the delusion that I was even a fraction as presentable as when I left. Clothes are rumpled and creased. Armpits are damp. Feet are swollen. My face looks as if I’ve dipped it in the aftermath of the Exxon Valdez.
I formulated a battle plan just in time. I have switched to Cornsilk pressed powder. It has mysterious oil absorbing properties that I prefer to think of as magic because I don’t want to know what is in it. It could be corn STARCH for all I care.
Last Thursday, we attended an event, along with 698 other people, in an airplane hanger sans air conditioning. Luckily, it had several days in a row of eighty-five degree weather to heat up like a pressure cooker and replace all oxygen with humidity. Otherwise, the tropical feeling would not have been complete, and it is pitiful when something is done half way.
Thanks to my new real friend, Cornsilk, my face, along with my shoes, was one of two survivors. My clothes will have to go in the trash as they were cocktail attire, NOT moisture wicking performance gear.
I would love to wax poetic about Indian summer, but I have to go stuff ice cubes in my bra so I can give a presentation to teachers in a high school classroom. You guessed it. No air.