Don’t throw shit at me when I proclaim this, but I’m WAY more of a winter person. Hands down. The summer is lovely and all. Don’t get me wrong, maxi dresses are my world. Except for the fact that the bane of my existence rears its ugly head: humidity. 

If you are a fan of humid weather, I’m sorry, but you’re a freak of nature and we can’t be friends. How can anyone in their right mind be a fan of this shit? It’s heavy, gross, depletes my energy, and one of my least favorite words in the English language, “dewy”:::chills::: 

I’ve given this a lot of thought, probably too much, but if the Michelin Man, Big Foot and a storm cloud had an orgy together and reproduced, they would end up with a baby named Humidity. This big, puffy, evil cloud of awkwardness walks the Earth ruining everything it comes across. It just floats up to people and breathes really heavily in their faces, making everything in its path sweaty and wilted (hey … how about THAT visual). 

Forget about trying to look nice or together or not like a complete and utter hot mess, that is unless you live in an air conditioned bubble. For me, a commuter who doesn’t have the luxury of jumping from my air conditioned house, to air conditioned car, to air conditioned office … finds myself getting the brunt of the humid wrath, and quite frankly, I’m sick of it. 

“OMG I’m having such a good hair day,” I say to myself rarely as I give one last look in the mirror before walking out the door. Then the second my heel hits the pavement, BAM. Humidity bitch slaps me across my face, leaving my hair puffy and curling in all the wrong places, and my makeup melting off my face. All I want is to turn around and feel the cool embrace of sweet sweet AC, but alas, I must forge forward. 

By the time I make it to the train, the idea of walking down the street in my underpants sounds like heaven compared to dealing with the clinging, uncomfortable, suffocating nightmare that my skinny jeans have turned into. I mean THAT is saying something considering I don’t even let my cats see me in my underpants. 

Maxi skirts are too hot. Jeans are too hot. Short shorts are too hot. My hair always looks like shit. I’m continuously a hot, shiny, sweaty mess, I don’t even know why I bother putting on my “face” in the morning. And yet, I don’t believe it is socially acceptable to walk around with my hair in a high bun, butt ass naked, right? Right. So what is the solution to fight humidity? How can we live our every day lives without looking like a wilted, exhausted, sweaty mess by the time we get from A to B?

Well kids, the solution is there is no solution. Hate to break it to you. Those people who say, “every problem has a solution,” should be smacked because that statement is a bunch of hogwash. Dealing with humidity has no solution unless an air conditioned bubble is invented for people who live in the city and/or commute. For those of you who, again, go from one air conditioned space to another pleasantly all day, well, aren’t you just so put together. Hey, guess what else? I hate your face.

If you can’t tell … humidity turns me into an angry, tired beast. So until the rare day in life comes around when it’s like 73 and sunny sans humidity in Philly, I will continue being a sour broad who shakes her fist at the inanimate humidity like a crazy person with puffy hair and sweat stains.