Commemorating a heat wave

Readers, I'm not into one-upping duels.  They remind me of Penelope on Saturday Night Live, a skit which has dwindled in popularity and wit lately but used to be one of my all-time favorites. She's that friend--and everyone has one--who always tops her conversation partner with an anecdote, connection, or personality trait that's just a little bit more outrageous (or in poor Penelope's case, a lot more outrageous).  

But in Minnesota, we Penelope ourselves sometimes on the topic of the weather, chatting in casual conversations about how hot it is now and how much worse it's going to be tomorrow. One main piece of evidence is our freakish love for the heat index, which incorporates the humidity to demonstrate how horrifically hot it feels, which is inevitably higher than just the straight-up temperature. (I am not immune to this love.) We complain and we grouch, but I think we also revel secretly in the amazing extremes of meteorological conditions here and the idea that it must breed some sort of collective toughness.

Or we cling to that idea, anyway, during weeks like these.  Yesterday, Minneapolis was the hottest city in the United States, with dewpoints higher than places in the Amazon. I want to make it clear that I'm writing about weather today not to channel Penelope to show you how over-the-top horrible it feels, but for two reasons:

• I love weather.  You will read about this in the future.  I get overly excited about storms and blizzards, heat waves and cold snaps, downpours and dewpoints.  Mother Nature has serious tricks up her sleeve.  It's marvelous stuff.  I used to want to be a meteorologist.
• This week's weather is more than just awful and literally breath-taking. It's incredible and thus worth documenting to me (especially for when my January self is paging through Miles and Laurel's archives to see what summer felt like).

The conditions are both wholly energy-sapping and an enormous, exciting spectacle. This kind of heat really whips Minnesotans into a frenzy, and it becomes a collective experience because we all feel exceptionally uncomfortable together.  (Well, when I write it that way, it doesn't sound fun at all.  But I hope you know what I mean.) Between the soaring temperatures and the dewpoint and humidity to match, I have never encountered hotter, more stifling conditions in my entire life.

Yesterday, I drove home on Summit Avenue, a scenic boulevard with big sidewalks for runners and bike lanes for cyclists.  Around rush hour time, morning and night, it's packed with people going about their workouts and walk/bike commutes.  Yesterday: ghost town.  It was downright eerie. 

But no wonder: it was 98 degrees, with a heat index of 112. I sure wasn't out there running.

I did head out early this morning for a run with my brother.  I suspect I sweated more than I ran, if a method existed to equate pounds of sweat lost to mileage completed.  When I got home from the run, it was 83 degrees, with a heat index of 95. And again, no wonder I felt tired and slow, right?

When I got home from work yesterday, I made quinoa and black bean salad and a mish-mash quinoa-beans-salsa-potatoes-cheese casserole.  Using the stove and oven was probably a miscue. It reminded me of when my brother and I used to beg my dad to take us to McDonald's for dinner because it was "too hot to cook," because he used that phrase, like, one time, and we latched onto it as a reason for Happy Meals.  (I still justify Chipotle trips this way sometimes.)

The heat is making pavement buckle on the interstate, fierce thunderstorms pop up out of nowhere, and store windows fog up with condensation. It's making a 10-minute midday walk into Sweat-o-rama 2011. It's making my face melt.  But:

• I'm not scraping ice off a windshield.
• It takes only a minute to dress for a run (bonus: no layers or facemasks involved).
• It's a very good excuse to watch movies and eat copious amounts of watermelon and ice cream. 

So, for now, I'll try to enjoy this summer spectacle. Penelope sure would!