You know the old saying, “If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen?” Well, I say, “If you can’t stand the heat, hang a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign outside your baby-making parts from October to January.”
If you have never experienced what it’s like to be a walking incubator during the throes of summer heat, my advice may seem a little drastic. I promise you, it’s not.
When I was warned months ago that being pregnant in the summer would feel a lot like being in one of Dante’s nine circles (whichever one is the hottest), I didn’t worry much. I reasoned that 1) I’ve lived through plenty of summers before 2) I know how to operate an air conditioner and 3) I’m not a wuss.
Turns out, none of my assumptions were valid.
First, living through summer as a normal human being is an entirely different reality than living through it as two normal human beings.
Secondly, trying to combat an overheated, pregnant body with a thermostat that stops at 60-degrees is like trying to put out the Great Chicago Fire with a garden hose. Not happening.
Finally, if you’re pregnant and not bothered by the summer heat, it doesn’t mean you’re not a wuss. It means you’re superhuman and probably related to Clark Kent or some other equally handsome non-human creature.
Seriously, there’s a reason why they say expectant mothers have a “bun in the oven.” It’s because your body temperature usually hovers around 350 degrees. And, that’s on a good day.
Knowing all this doesn’t make the summer heat any more bearable, but it does make me feel better about staying perpetually hidden away in my cave-like apartment, naked as a jaybird, perched in front of my three-speed fan. (I’ll pause here while you grab the brain bleach.)
As I share almost every week, there are two sides to every coin. In this case, the coin is nearly melted, but, still, there are some boons to enduring a late-term pregnancy during the summer months.
On the rare occasion that I decide to face the heat, I get to do fun things like find out what my hands and feet would look like were I to gain three hundred pounds. Or, if I go anyplace where I’ll be engaged in conversations with strangers, I get to see how many new, clever ways I can detail having gratuitous amounts of sweat pour from every crevice of my body. (Hint: If you choose to use this tried-and-true conversation starter, never swap out “sweat” for “glisten” and be sure to work the words “pig” and “racehorse” into your explanation as often as you can. Trust me, it’s more fun that way.)
Fortunately, I won’t be a walking oven for much longer. I have just nine more weeks to keep my cool. And, unless I miss my guess, that should be just enough time to draft a pretty nifty “Do Not Disturb” sign.