I’m worried that I may have died in my sleep last night. There seems to be a real possibility that I’m in hell now but no one has told me yet. I’m having a hard time believing that I actually woke up in Phoenix, Arizona on this June morning.
The forecast in Phoenix today calls for sunshine, zero percent chance of precipitation, 10 mile-per-hour winds, and a high of 111 degrees Fahrenheit. My calendar calls for a lunch meeting this afternoon at a nearby restaurant. That meeting will require me to walk one block from my office—meaning take a walk outside, in broad daylight—and then stand at the street corner for approximately two minutes to wait for a very long stoplight to change. When the signal changes, I will have to walk on asphalt that has been exposed to these triple-digit temperatures all day—asphalt hot enough to melt the heels off my shoes. After lunch, I will have to do all of those things again.
I just looked in a mirror and I appeared to be wearing a black suit with a pink silk blouse underneath, paired with closed-toe, black leather sling-back pumps with slender stiletto heels. I appeared to have left my long hair down, where it can trap heat on my neck and shoulders. But that can’t be me. Unless it’s dead-me, stuck in hell or someplace like it. There’s no way I would have worn a suit, knowing I’d have to be outside for more than 42 seconds. There’s no way a living, shoe-loving woman like myself would have opted for stiletto heels today, knowing how the spikes can sink into hot asphalt and get stuck there, sometimes causing a woman to step right out of her shoe as she walks.
There’s no way I came to Phoenix to do business in June. This didn’t happen. It just couldn’t have.