Here comes the heat

By Emma Testerman | Jul 30, 2020

It apparently seems that I miss the cooler summer days we had a few weeks ago, compared to the humid sunshine we're now blasted with. If only I didn't have a morbid fear of basements thanks to "The Conjuring," otherwise I'd be chilling down there (quite literally) with a hard cider and a good podcast show.

The weather isn't the only thing heating up, apparently. We're watching the world fall to pieces, which is...sort of cathartic, in a dissociative sense. But the agitation and ironic madness of today's ridiculousness is steadily increasing.

My friends and I had a discussion via our chat group on if we were all getting enough sleep during this heat wave, along with how we're all doing in general. One of them admitted that she felt like she's in a constant state of...expectancy? Anticipation? Hesitant fear?

We're not sure, but we're all feeling it, at least I sure do. Like one more shoe is about to drop to join the rest that 2020 gave. Whatever the word is, maybe others are feeling it as well. Or maybe we're now trained like a Pavlov dog to expect another hard hit we didn't see ever happening. Us being creative writing majors and also unable to find a word for this is nothing short of a conundrum.

At this point, I feel like Veronica Sawyer at the end of Heathers.

I've finally got the last box at my new pad unpacked, but I realized that nothing I have was organized in any way. Past Emma just threw everything haphazardly into whatever still had space, clearly keen on making travel easy.

So now I'm cursing my past self as I pull out a multitude of miscellaneous items that at first start as knitting and sewing supplies, but then I end up finding a bag of river rocks, a block of Himalayan salt, an English tin filled with chai tea bags (why do I have this? I hate chai tea), a hunting knife from 1915 and few Star Wars Funko Dolls.

Apparently, to my surprise, moving is the easiest part. The post-organization is the hard part. I'm pretty sure unpacking a never-ending array of boxes during 90 degree weather with the worst fan ever from 1990 is some form of punishment in a primary level of Hell.

Still, there's therapy in going through what you own. You find old letters, some from others, and some you wrote and never meant to send. You find things that remind you to give away, or reminisce, or shudder in thought. With each empty box thrown into the basement that totally doesn't remind you of that scene from "The Conjuring," your space blossoms into something that you can feel pride in creating.

I plan to add a ton of fake plants to use as a form of ceiling-to-wall tapestry and canopy set, really emphasize that a creature of the forest (maybe bog is more like it) lives in my room. Real plants won't survive up here with the heat like this.

The heat bubble thankfully burst, however. I'm awash in cheer and my summer lazy-haze is temporarily gone, thanks to the news that my closest pen pal friend in New Zealand is expected to give birth to her first child tomorrow.

How crazy would it be to just book a flight? There probably aren't any planes going international, actually.

How hard is it to fly a plane?

In any case, I'm excited to hear from her again soon, and hopefully see her new baby girl's face. I've known her since I was 13; it's always a reeling moment when we discuss what we're currently doing and remembering where we once were when we first met.

I know extending a family during one of the worst pandemics in history is raging on, but knowing that it's a huge spark of joy about to go off is one of the many things that can make this bearable. I hope by the time all young children grow up a little in the future, the world will be in a better place than it is now. We owe that to them, if we can get things to finally simmer down.

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