I’m afraid to open the blinds and drapes before sunset.
My white antique roses are a toasty brown.
The dehumidifier is full by .
The car thermometer says “99” when I pull out of the garage and “107” when I hit the highway.
If I haven’t driven there and done it by 2, I’m not leaving the house. It can wait.
I don’t feel like baking.
All our meals involve recipes that don’t require an oven.
I switch from a nice Merlot to an icy-cold Moscato.
There are no kids walking to and from school past my living room window.
I don’t have to get up and make my daughter a sack lunch.
There’s a kid in my house 24/7.
I am vigilant about shaving my legs and getting my toe nails painted.
I weigh, every day, the difficult decision—can my colored hair get wet in the pool or do I have to wait one more day?
There is a bottle of water and sunscreen and a floppy hat in my car at all times.
I’m afraid to sit on a metal picnic bench.
Even the idea of a picnic just makes me tired.
Frozen pickle juice “pops” sound appealing.
There are more people in the choir and serving at the altar than there are people in the congregation.
If it isn’t air-conditioned, I’m not interested.
I’m hot in a bathing suit.