I hate August

August is the one month of the year that I simply loath. Despise. Hate with a passion. Oh sure, my girls' birthday is in August, and that's something happy. And the first day of school is in August. That's always a cause for celebration. But those happen early in the month, leaving nothing else to look forward to except the cooler breezes of September.

Every year when the girls start back to school, I think I'll start back to my walking routine. This year, I'm dragging the dogs along. We headed out about 9am and walked for about 35 minutes. About halfway through, I was drenched with sweat and the dogs were panting like we'd been running. Now it was only about 75F. Not that hot, right? Ah, but you forget the unpleasant pea soup that posses for an atmosphere around here in August. Sweat doesn't evaporate, you can't get a deep breath and climbing a hill makes you feel like you're going to pass out.

The dogs were glaring at me and I could tell they were thinking "Hey, do you see this fur coat? Huh? Didja? Well, why don't you wear it? I'm hot. I want to go home. You try walking around on hot pavement in the middle of freaking August with a fur coat on and see how enthusiastic you are about the idea. Stupid human."

But we did it, and will be doing it again several days a week because my pants are all tight and I refuse to go buy more in a bigger size. My dear friend Toni has reminded me that I'd prefer to spend most of my 30s basking in my hotness, when I'm aware enough of my sexuality to enjoy it. Especially since when I was young and slender and actually was hot, I was too dumb to realize it and enjoy it. Thus, I am determined to fight the ravages of being fat, getting pregnant with twins while fat, and then getting pregnant with a fat baby while slightly less fat. I may never be a Playboy bunny, but I can damned well get to the point where I look hot with clothes on.

So, bring it on August. I'll be back out there tomorrow. But don't bring it on too much, because I really hate August.