Is It Hot In Here?

I've always been the warm-blooded type, possibly due to being a member of the GRITS club (Girls Raised In The South). I used to love to walk to the beach in my bare feet trying to burn the soles to a leathery toughness so I could do away with shoes for the rest of the summer. I loved the way I could feel the heat pulsing off of my scalp like I could see it radiating off of cars, loved the drips of sweat running in pools down my belly. To some it sounds like hell, but to me it was invigorating. Cleansing.

I suffered through ten northeast winters, shivering constantly and never really feeling warm until I got that first full blast of summer heat. Justin and I have totally different thermal settings and I prefer the house at 80 or 81 in the summer while he is quietly turning the AC thermostat down when I'm in the other room. I crank my electric blanket to 10 in the winter and he slides a foot over to my side and claims third degree burns.

Cue pregnancy. I understand the whole bun-in-the-oven metaphor now. Because that's what I am - a walking, breathing oven that isn't allowed to drink a cold, frosty beer to cool down in this god-forsaken heat. I admit, I feel a little betrayed by this southern heat. Like we used to be partners, pals from way back and that we understood each other. But as happens in so many good relationships, I've changed, evolved, developed new interests and heat isn't the forgiving kind.

I went to Busch Gardens in Tampa with the whole fam-damily last week. As corny as it sounds, Busch Gardens is one of my favorite spots to visit. Ever. The roller coasters are some of the best I've ever been on, they have wonderful water rides that let you get soaked and cool off, a beautiful nature preserve with large, rolling landscapes for the animals instead of tight, depressing cages, it's pristinely clean and not too big that you feel like you've missed something if you spend the entire day there. And cold, frosty Anhauser is served anywhere you turn. Whether you're 4 or 44 it's pretty Mecca-ish, no matter what you like to do.

Oh but this time, I am a mobile Betty Crocker not-so-easy-bake oven and the heat has turned against me. It's well into the high 90's when we arrive and probably hits 100 degrees by 1:00 PM. I am forbidden from going on any water rides to cool off as most of them post signs warning expectant mothers to stay off or their baby will be jolted right out of their uterus. I can't go on the roller coasters for same reason and god knows I can't have a beer with Justin the Security Guard monitoring everything I put in my mouth.

I ride the Sky Lift, a boring, but cooling, bucket ride over the park and sip my fourth frozen lemonade. I do a lot of waiting. Mostly for my nephews to enjoy all the rides they are now old enough to enter and ironically, now that they are tall enough I can't join them. I feel the sweat run down my back, my breasts, my legs, my temples. But it's not the same heat I loved and coveted. It's attacking me from the inside now. It surges up from the sidewalks in blasts and lingers under my skirt like a pervert. It pounds down on my head like a fist from above, demanding, draining.

I feel like a combustion engine chugging past the water flume ride, the tiger exhibit, the food stands. I think I see pity in the eyes of some mothers with young children and I bet they are wondering what on earth I was thinking of, coming here pregnant in this heat. I want to tell them it wasn't always like this. That we used to be a team, the heat and me. I didn't think my feelings could change so heartlessly, so easily. But all I want now is movie theater air conditioning and a cherry Icee for B the G. I would welcome a blast of arctic air or a cooling thunderstorm. My needs have changed and I've had to move on.