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Oh yeah, I’m supposed to be writing things here. In lieu of something poignant or helpful, here’s this:

I‘ve come to the realization that I’m a rather soft human being. Some of my closest friends would say there’s no point in announcing this because they believe it to be a bit obvious and have known it for years. But I’m nothing if not a bit purposefully ignorant of my shortcomings, so I’ll treat this more as a surprise observation rather than just accepting a previously acknowledged fact.

I’m tired.

There. I said it. I’m physically quite tired.

There are a number of things at play here. The average temperature in Florence this time of year is typically in the mid 80s. We’ve been told it’s rather quite nice and a decent stepping stone before the heat really starts to get out of hand in July. Apparently this is because Florence sits in a bit of a valley where the air gets trapped and the city ends up dealing with both the warmest and coolest temps in Tuscany.

But it hasn’t been in the mid 80s, it’s been in the mid 90s. This causes zero issues for Lindsay who could be reading a book inside a brick oven and still look around to see if anybody else felt a bit of a draft. I’d say it’s a problem for Julia, but few people are dumb enough to purposefully inflict heat stroke upon babies, so she won’t have any problems unless I forget to push her stroller into the shade. No, the person we’re genuinely concerned for, is me.

If you’ve never met me before, I’m what doctors describe as ‘violently pale’. I don’t tan. I don’t burn. I merely ignite. I react to sunlight the same way some people react to shellfish: explosively with quite a large splash radius. And as an added bonus, this delightful response to sunlight has a direct correlation to how I handle heat. Jules might be fine chilling in the shade now, but if she even tries on pair of these genes, well….sorry kid. Your college fund will be an investment in Coppertone.

But of course, it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity to spend a month in Florence, so instead of sitting in air conditioned cafes (of which there are remarkably few, it seems the Italians like their ambiance like their coffee: sweltering) we’re out wandering the streets, covering 6-8 miles a day. And that’s after the morning run.

Look, I’m only really complaining because this is all self-imposed discomfort. I can’t blame others because I inherited the heat tolerance of jello. But it means that I’m soggy. Every hour of every day. And it’s localized too. I don’t have the opportunity to wipe my sweaty brow in slow motion the way some attractive protagonist might do after completing a manly task like building a hospital or cutting down a rainforest in some straight to Netflix money pit. Instead, I get to fend off never ending attacks from my underwear (traditionally a land mammal) which has decided to take up the lifestyle of an aquatic monster and splash around with truly unexpected vigor and hostility.

And to palate cleanse that image, here’s a sunset:

I’ll write something more relevant tomorrow. I promise.