Still A Bunch of Pansies

It’s true. I am still a bunch of pansies.

It’s about 30 degrees out. Our first really sunny summery day. And I am out gardening. (Well, not right NOW, you understand. I came in for some water.)

Spiffy new garden spade? Check.

Rubber-palmed gardening gloves? Check.

Totally, comically, unflattering paint-splattered shorts? Checkerooni.

Superduper mega SPF sunscreen? Check.

Rubber crocs-type gardening shoes? Checkola.

Oh-so-stylin’ bucket hat? Check.

Yep, I got it all. And…

Sweating like a pig? Checkity-check-check.

Seriously. I am melting like someone threw a bucket of water on the Wicked Witch of the West, here. I am dripping sweat and SPF-y goodness all over the place.

And already I am itching from allergies. Can a person be allergic to dirt? Because I haven’t even gotten into the weeds or the grass yet.

It can’t just be MOI that finds it hot today. Cinnamon is holed up in a dark cave, sleeping. Lucy is stretched out, pancake flat. Even her ears are flattened out. And she’s staring off into the distance like she’s looking at a mirage in the desert.  So I can’t be the only one finding it warm.

It IS lovely, I must admit. It’s nice to be wearing shorts outside again. But still.

45 minutes in the garden and I’m a puddle already.

To be fair, sunscreen and a hat are not my usual attire. I feel like I am encased in rubber wearing this stuff. “Does not clog pores” my ass, pal — this stuff has laminated me. I am a laminated garden gnome in a bad hat.

But I am making an effort to avoid a) sunburn on my scalp, which is an absurd and painful thing, and 2) a farmer tan, which looks ridiculous on anyone but an actual farmer.

It’s a toss up, really: farmer tan and an painful pink scalp vs. sweating like a large fat mobile fountain. What to choose? Death by heat stroke or by skin cancer?

Hmph.  Well, better get this bunch of pansies back into the garden.