We are in the middle of my favourite time of year: awards season. However, almost everyone else in the southern hemisphere is excited for a different reason, because it’s summer.
People get off on these supposedly ‘perfect months’. Instagram gets bombarded with posts about amazing summer activities we all must participate in lest we waste any moment of this nauseating Australian heat. As someone that doesn’t exactly thrive in temperatures above 23°C, I never scream for joy when summer activities roll around. As such, this is what comes to mind whenever I’m given suggestions for “hot summer fun”.
I’m not the kind of person that produces a subtle, radiant glow in the heat, I fucking melt. Wicked Witch of the West status meltage. The second I leave the safety of an air-conditioned space, my body assumes it’s on Survivor and immediately starts shutting down.
I understand it’s a natural thing, but find me someone that doesn’t mind when you hug them with a fully moist front. It’s rarely welcomed by friends, let alone potential sexual partners.
HOWEVER - if we are out, don't try and give me the whole “if you’re hot, take a layer off” nonsense. I have committed to wearing a leather (pleather) jacket and boots to this outdoor crotchet festival because I’m a dedicated fashionista (read: complete fucking idiot) who is more comfortable when covered in various layers. I will not “remove” my jacket. Don’t be so rude and sensible.
Whilst we're discussing the cruelty of the sun, it’s a good time to mention the least sexy thing to bring out at an urban picnic or whatever the fuck is Instagrammable nowadays: SPF. I’m a porcelain skinned princess, ultimately meaning that the sun roasts my pale arse.
Outdoor fusion pop-up bars are all well and good until you pull out the Banana Boat SPF 50+ and start slathering it on your upper arms. Nothing kills a sexy summer flirty vibe quicker than coating yourself in what looks and smells like coconut flavoured yoghurt.
"Find me someone that doesn’t mind when you hug them with a fully moist front. It’s rarely welcomed by friends, let alone potential sexual partners."
When I see events on Facebook for a “Summer Fusion Feast” or “Saucy Summer Solstice” I accept pretty quickly. I’ll need to take out a small personal loan to afford it, but something about summer makes it okay to charge $34 for a small bunch of rocket peppered with shaved parmesan and washed down with a $28 elderflower infused vodka.
I love my fair share of bougie luxury, but I have a limit and that includes going into debt for a gourmet alfresco brunch. There is no escaping these prices, because what am I supposed to do; NOT eat the bespoke glazed burg-wich? (that’s the love child of a burger and sandwich. This is the age we live in people.) Fuck that, mama needs to eat and stay in areas that are 100% air-conditioned or fitted with a ceiling fan at the very least!
Let’s get real, if you have meat on the bone it's very likely you will experience enough inner thigh friction to start a small fire.
The struggle is painful and oh so real. By the time autumn comes around, there is so much erosion on my thighs that you’d think they were Google Earth images of the Grand Canyon (that’s sexy, I’m adding it to my Tinder profile). When I see links for “Best Sydney Summer Hikes”, three distinct images come to mind.
1) Me - rocking my cute lil sports luxe outfit ready to seize the day.
2) Me - a sweaty red faced beast heaving up a slight incline as I feel the chub rub penetrating my soul.
3) Me - in bed with my legs in phantom stirrups, sobbing as I look for paw paw ointment and wonder why I made the mistake of getting out of bed and doing things in the first place.
"Let’s get real, if you have meat on the bone it's very likely you will experience enough inner thigh friction to start a small fire."
A wise drag queen once sung, “thick thighs make the dick rise,” but in summer they also make me consider wearing bike shorts on the fucking reg.
I hate putting a dampener on everybody’s favourite time of year (that’s a lie, it’s my one true joy). But still, I can’t help but dread my red face and back sweat and also being unable to reach for my wallet to buy a $70 whiskey sour infused with green tea because my inner elbow has somehow formed an ‘interesting’ chafe.
The truth is that I still go to these things. But don’t worry, I always pay the fee to medically remove myself after heat fusing to my friend’s plastic picnic rugs. If you are in agreement with me, next time someone suggests lawn bowls look them dead in the eye, then lean your sweaty self in really close and whisper “Chafe city bitch. Chafe chafe city bitch”.
Daniel is a twenty something living in Melbourne. He had to grow a beard so people would stop calling him "ma’am”. When he’s not panicking about bullshit and eating saturated fats, he can be found abusing filters on @daniel_hayek.