Summer In The City, 105 Degrees & A Sea of Legs

I love the Sun, let me make that clear. I like to look at it through my dark, dark lenses and from under my big hat brim, and I love to feel its warmth on my calves and feet. Having a love-hate relationship with the Sun is the way of the Francophile. Our milky skin is seemingly genetically paired with an inherent boredom with the monotiny of bright blue days that stretch beyond the week of our yearly vacation. We French are even willing to travel to see that glowing orb and feel its warmth on coastal beaches for a few hours during that week of relaxation. It is, after all, the divine Brigitte Bardot that made iconic the bikini swimsuit and St. Tropez.

Living in the desert Southwest has been a cultural shock of the highest order for me. More than the endlessly repetitive blue sunny days, more than the relentless sunrays which bleach the very color out of the fabric of the pillows on my patio in less than one season, more than the need to close my office drapes by 8:30 a.m. to see my computer monitor as it is obliterated by the cornea-boiling brilliance engulfing my windows, it is what I view through those dark, dark glasses when I do venture out into the youth-sucking heat which is creating discomfort for me. I find myself horrified and hypnotized by a sea of human legs, legs of all shapes, sizes and colors; from toddlers to wizened elders. Day and evening, this sea of legs rolls over the landscape of the city in a seemingly never-ending wave. These legs poke out from the bottoms of baggy shorts, hip creasing bikini bottoms, camel-toed Daisy Dukes, and poly stretch capri pants that have expanded beyond the limits of the thread's containment factor. Men and women, seemingly unaware of the visual assault to the eyes of the world these legs comprise, strut and stroll, perch and chat, jog and pound, lean seductively in pairs; mince with leashed dogs and strain to push overloaded grocery carts through the wavy heated haze reflecting off of the asphalt parking lot. All the while, a French woman smooths the skirt of her 1950s sundress as she carefully sits down on a bench amid this arid tableau and reminds herself over and over again to eat her yogurt and not to stare, but to pull down the brim of her floppy hat and masquerade her reactions to these shocking observations with her dark, dark lenses.

There is no river, natural lake or ocean here, propelling the parched desert dwellers to assauge their need for cool, sparkling wetness with swimming pools, large and small, filling nearly every backyard space of every home in the Valley. From paddle pools to kidney-shaped wonders of Olympian proportions, replete with cascading waterfalls and gurgling fountains, these Sun-dazed residents make an attempt en masse to cool the fire in the sky with chemically-treated 'cement ponds'. Spending long afternoons jointly lounging and dangling and splashing, stroking and slurping through the endless hours before sunset, the need to change clothing for that quick trip to the convenience store for beverages, to see a film and shop, or to dine at the local trattoria or seafood restaurant, for example, seem to have been permanently burned out of their brains. Slovenliness has morphed into the new 'casualness' and those of us with memories of more civilized times, the days when men and women paid close attention to even their weekend wear are left to weep and wander through the streets incognito, 'disguised' in what would have once been viewed as simply appropriate and well-groomed.

Having successfully moved through the sea of legs without having drowned in their dissonance , I return home, pour myself a glass of Chardonnay, and content myself with the act of sitting down at the small table in my pool-less back yard and lifting my glass to that blazing ball of light as it sinks below the horizon...