Pretending

“Somehow, it was hotter then: a black dog suffered on a summer's day; bony mules hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in the sweltering shade of the live oaks on the square. Men's stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-o'clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.”

I cannot fight the elements anymore. It is time to revel in the Harper Lee-esque atmosphere created by the summer heat and think of myself as glowing rather than sweaty.

All that’s need for a glamorous life is a vivid imagination.