"Degrees" mean different things to different people. To some people, "100 degrees" promises salmonella poisoning from undercooked chicken. To others, it's an object that is only mostly turned halfway around. For me and all other Portlanders, 100 degrees means we abandon any and all fashion sense (if one may call it that) in an attempt to clad ourselves in the least amount of clothing possible without getting arrested for public indecency (on all but Naked Bike Ride day).
It's the clothing normally reserved for wear only on laundry day in one's own home with the shades drawn. The back up clothing. The Tae-bo in your living room, but only when you're single clothing. You know what I'm talking about. We put it on and we go OUT. We go out because it's too fucking hot to stay IN. Because we don't have air conditioning. This state, collectively, is like those women who profess to forget how painful childbirth is as they prepare to push out their 8th mouth to feed. The hot days of summer fade quickly into shitty, gloomy rain and we go another year without installing AC. Imbeciles.
Which is how I end up out in public in a hand-me-down patchy jeanskirt that is so short, when I sit in a chair...it's straight cheek to vinyl. I sound like velcro when I come back up. Walking down the street I do that preggo waddle to prevent my thighs from touching as they pass to keep the friction from starting a small fire. My tank top is 10 years old and the cotton has become so thin, it's misshapen and see-through. The outfit belongs in a lawn chair at a trailer park. But I wear it, dragging my burning feet along in sandals so thin I can feel the pavement. I wear it and I'm thankful for it. When it goes back to 80 degrees, maybe I'll shudder at my knotted up hairstyle and my lack of makeup, my giant Elton John sunglasses that cover half of my face, les tout ensemble. Maybe then I'll care.
But right now...I want to crawl into my refrigerator and learn to speak Inuit.
