It’s what my son misses about Florida while stationed in the desert too far away.
And it’s the first thing that welcomes me back after the plane lands, the door is opened and that slightly stinky thick air comes whooshing in.
Humidity is home. Humidity is pedaling a 10-speed alongside your best friend after a lazy childhood afternoon at the Plant City Swim Club. Humidity is a June wedding in full regalia 30 years ago. Humidity is deciding to clean out the garage with your teenagers in late August because it just cannot wait any longer. Humidity is the Bartow Halloween Parade.
And it’s a September evening spent enjoying a glass of sweating Chardonnay with friends in the backyard… while you complain about the humidity.
A cousin of my husband recently visited Orlando from her home in Wisconsin and was completely flummoxed when her glasses fogged as she exited a vehicle and stepped into the humid air. “How can anybody stand to live like this?” she pleaded.
How can you not?