Oy, Vey! It's only mid-June...

Everything in the city is moist today. And not in a Dunken-Heinz yummy cake-like way. No not at all. It's a terrible sticky feeling in the air. The dreaded humidity.

Days like this make me long to be an elderly Jewish lady named Mabel living off my husband's pension and escaping to the milder climate of the Florida coastline every Summer. "Ah, to be young again," I would be heard muttering to myself as I down another whiskey sour before going to see Carol Burnett play Lady Macbeth at the local dinner theater.

But no, instead I am forced to live in the sweltering New York City jungle. As much as my poor pale skin recoils at the very hint of direct sunlight, it is no the terible cancer ball in the sky that gives me the most pause during the summer months. It's the backsweat. I can sweat buckets from every pore of my pettite body, but the sweaty back everyone gets from the mugginess is the bane of my existance. Every morning I crawl off the streets into the office and park in front of air conditioner to alleviate my suffering. And there's only 3 more months of this.