Well, That Escalated Quickly…

It's late June. The heat is oppressive. The air feels chewable. And I have just discovered something deeply unsettling. I may have the same weather preferences as a mosquito.

I'd always assumed mosquitoes enjoyed warm, sticky weather. I just didn't expect them to demonstrate it quite so enthusiastically while I was trying to read. After donating more blood than I remembered consenting to, I decided to investigate the science.

Mosquitoes become active when the thermometer hits 50°F. They operate with peak efficiency, joy, and appetite all the way up through the 70s and 80s. The moment the mercury hits 95°F, they quit. Their biological systems cannot take the extreme heat. They refuse to fly. They cancel their outdoor plans and go into hiding.

I have the exact same meteorological profile as a mosquito.

This realization immediately triggered a biological identity crisis. We share a Google Calendar. If it is a gorgeous, breezy, crisp 72 degrees outside, the mosquitoes and I look out the window, nod in unison, and decide it's a perfect time to crack open the flat.

But right now, with this severe heat wave pushing the thermometer past that magical 95-degree threshold, I am finding a very weird, twisted silver lining. The air outside is thick enough to chew, the pavement is actively melting, and my living room feels like a literal sauna, but I have never felt more victorious. I am sitting here sweating profusely, the ice in my drink is melting before it even hits my lips, but I am reading my book in absolute, undisputed peace because my biological twins are currently trapped in their own tiny mosquito living rooms, staring at the weather app, and making the exact same choice I would.

Classic novels are filled with noble struggles.

People wait years for lost loves. They inherit mysterious estates. They survive shipwrecks, revolutions, impossible misunderstandings, and occasionally Russian winters.

Not one of them, as far as I can recall, pauses dramatically to slap their own forehead because a mosquito has found the only square inch of exposed skin.

Imagine how different some classics would have been.

Elizabeth Bennet, halfway through a walk with Darcy:

"You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and — "

SMACK.

"Sorry. Mosquito."

Sherlock Holmes, whose powers of observation border on the supernatural, would undoubtedly identify the precise species after a single bite. Dr. Watson, meanwhile, would simply be scratching his ankles and wondering why they hadn't stayed at Baker Street.

Perhaps the omission is understandable. The classics concern themselves with the great trials of humanity. Mosquitoes are beneath literature.

Or perhaps they are simply beyond words.

Summer often arrives with unreasonable expectations.

We are supposed to seize every sunny day. Visit every festival. Attend every barbecue. Go hiking. Paddleboarding. Outdoor concerts. Farmers' markets. Rooftop dinners.

Somewhere along the line, relaxing became another competitive sport.

This heat wave has accidentally given me permission to do something wonderfully radical.

Nothing.

So here we are. The mosquitoes and I have reached an unspoken agreement during this heat wave. They stay inside. I stay inside.

Neither of us particularly enjoys this arrangement, but we recognize necessity when we see it.

Perhaps somewhere, in a tiny mosquito apartment, one of them is looking longingly through the window and saying:

"I'd love to go out this evening, but it's simply too hot."

If so, I wish them a pleasant evening. From a safe distance. Very safe.

Of course, the forecast says temperatures will soon drift back into the low eighties.

Which means peace negotiations are about to collapse.

The mosquitoes will emerge from whatever tiny cafes, libraries, and living rooms they have been hiding in. They'll stretch their wings, consult their own social calendars, and unanimously decide that we look delicious.

And I, armed with a book, a can of insect repellent, and a level of optimism unsupported by historical evidence, will wander back into the garden convinced that this time will be different.

Reader, it will not. Still, every great story needs an antagonist.

Mine just happens to weigh about two milligrams and whine directly into my ear.

Well… that escalated quickly.