93 Degrees

I woke up to the sound of water splattering the concrete in the courtyard garden area. I looked up to the roof and saw my friend Hanna (who's nickname for me is 'strong one' in Arabic) apparently attempting to water the plants on the ground from four floors up. Curiosity getting the better of me, I climbed one flight higher and emerged into summertime on concrete. One of the men who works at the organization asked me why I had short sleeves on (short as in hitting my arms just above the elbows). "It's still winter," he said, gesturing from his leather jacket. I had been on the roof for less than 60 seconds, and I was almost sweating. "Well," I said, "It's hot outside." He still looked at me like I was a bit nuts. Really? I thought. Because it makes no sense to me why people are walking around in sweatshirt hoodies just because the calendar says it isn't even spring yet. All I know is my thermometer says it's 93 degrees, and the really intense sun ball tells me it ain't lyin', so call me crazy, but even observing the rules of modesty here, I'd rather dress for the temperature, not the season. 

It's been one of those days where everyone has been moving around like molasses, sluggish and tired. Even my mind hasn't been working as sharp as usual. I spent an hour trying to decide whether or not to put a border around an image in the organization's newsletter, and afterwards almost flushed my flash drive down the toilet. Bravo a liki, as they say here. Had that happened, I seriously would have cried. I cried a little last night because I let my friend cut my hair with a pair of safety elementary school scissors. It wasn't until I was able to work on it with my curling iron and pair it with make-up this morning that I realized things weren't quite so dire as they appeared last night. All that to say, losing my flash drive to the bowels of the Egyptian sewer system would have just been icing on the cake especially with the heat sapping all of the energy I have for emotional defenses. 93 degrees. NINETY. THREE. Geez oh Pete's. And as my friend Rania says, "This is just the beginning."