The fact that I have been advised, officially and sternly, using the self-important graphics of the National Weather Service, makes me cautious. The National Weather Service is an enigmatic agency, and that opacity forces me, despite myself, to pay attention. I can't see the man behind the curtain so there may not be a man at all.
The heat advisory will last for seven days. Cautious is the wrong word. It makes me craven. I doubt the hot weather skills I know I possess: to throw on a white dress, drink a full glass of water, slip out the sliding glass door and pick my way from shadow to shadow. I used to walk this way every day of summer, paddling against the hot-tub air, monitoring the sweat that pooled behind my neck and knees before it outgrew its surface tension, dribbled to slick my calves and my back. I like the way hot weather walking feels like both succor and masochism, the air laid across your face like a warm washcloth, a mild punishment.
Now, advised, I'm indoors. Sweatless. Tapping out other hot weeks, other hot worlds.