swelter
\ˈswel-tər\
\ˈswel-tər\
It is one of the crueler ironies of life in Southern California: September rolls around, with its iconography of crisp apples, changing leaves, and new school notebooks—and we get brutal heat waves and Santa Ana winds.
For the last couple of weeks, temperatures have been regularly in the 90s and 100s. Even worse, and unusual for this part of the world, it has not been cooling off appreciably at night. A series of hurricanes has been swirling about in the Pacific and while Arizona is being pummeled by flash floods we get only giant thunderheads piling up over the mountains, taunting us with the possibility of rain that never materializes.
For the last couple of weeks, temperatures have been regularly in the 90s and 100s. Even worse, and unusual for this part of the world, it has not been cooling off appreciably at night. A series of hurricanes has been swirling about in the Pacific and while Arizona is being pummeled by flash floods we get only giant thunderheads piling up over the mountains, taunting us with the possibility of rain that never materializes.
 "Ase o fuku onna" by Utamaro - Library of Congress. Licensed under Public domain via Wikimedia Commons | So we sit in front of the fan. And we swelter. Swelter is a great Old English and Germanic word, meaning to sweat, languish or faint because of heat. It comes from the Germanic verb swelt, meaning to die or perish, though also with a connotation of languishing, starving, or burning away. This word pops up in Old High German as swelzan (meaning to burn away), and also in the Old Norse sulte or svelta (to starve). In English, swelt also gave rise to sulter (a spell of hot weather), a word that has since wilted into obscurity, but not before giving us “sultry.” |
I must confess to a certain peevishness while reading the OED’s usage notes. All these medieval and Renaissance folks enjoying their Little Ice Age. What the hell do they know about living in Southern California without air conditioning in the era of global warming?
Nothing is what. Fellas like John Jewel go swanning about in their velvet doublets asserting that it is “Better … to Marrie, then to swelter inwardely with filthy affections.” (An Apologie in Defence of the Church of England (1571)).
But if Johnny boy knew ANYTHING about sweltering, he’d know that “filthy affections” are among the first things to fall by the wayside when the mercury rises and sharing a room with another living human is unbearable. As Cole Porter observed, far more pithily, “It’s Too Darn Hot.”
Then I saw Caleb Trenchfield’s 1662 description of “Physitians who, willing to appeare richly clad, swelter in Plush in hot summer”—and I was suddenly catapulted back to the sartorial trenches of middle school.
Nothing is what. Fellas like John Jewel go swanning about in their velvet doublets asserting that it is “Better … to Marrie, then to swelter inwardely with filthy affections.” (An Apologie in Defence of the Church of England (1571)).
But if Johnny boy knew ANYTHING about sweltering, he’d know that “filthy affections” are among the first things to fall by the wayside when the mercury rises and sharing a room with another living human is unbearable. As Cole Porter observed, far more pithily, “It’s Too Darn Hot.”
Then I saw Caleb Trenchfield’s 1662 description of “Physitians who, willing to appeare richly clad, swelter in Plush in hot summer”—and I was suddenly catapulted back to the sartorial trenches of middle school.
I was a teenager, not a 'Physitian.' But I had a similar appreciation of the need to appear richly (or at least fashionably) clad. So every September I would peruse the pages of Seventeen, hoping to find the right look for the new year. This being Southern California circa 1980, plush and ermine were not often featured on the “What’s Hot” pages. But there were glossy depictions of all kinds of other finery that the editors insisted were a good idea. Khaki and Lace! Legwarmers! Qiana jersey! Suspenders! Each year I would carefully curate a few back-to-school outfits and look forward to the start of classes and the possibility (alas, not realized until much later) of scoring a few filthy affections.
The nice shiny clothes never quite fit right—a little too tight here and too gappy there—but what was worse was the creeping self-doubt, niggling like an itchy label.
I didn’t have a full length mirror, so the last day of vacation would find me standing perched on the ledge of the bathtub, trying to get a good view of my first-day outfit in the medicine cabinet over the toilet.
Cute shirt! I would think. Sleek! Fashionable!
[long pause]
[teeter. wobble]
Maybe it would look better tucked in? Like this?
[tuck. teeter]
Or like that?
[re-tuck, wobble]
[long pause]
No, too dorky. Untucked then.
[try to stand on tiptoe. slip into tub]
Monica tucks in her shirts…
[tuck in. stagger. retuck.]
That looks good, right?
[long pause]
[wobble]
Oh God that looks stupid stupid stupid stupid.
[stomp. wobble]
Wait. Maybe like this.
[long pause]
[teeter]
That’s probably OK.
[wobble]
[pause]
Do I look like I’m trying too hard?
The next day I would head out the door into the blazing heat. In among the new books and the Pee-Chee folders, I’d discover that the lace was scratchy and the khakis stuck to my legs and that smudges and stains really show up on Qiana. By the end of the first week everything was completely wilted and I’d be back to my usual uniform of jeans and nerdy T-shirts.
I was never very good at fashion.
I’m still not, but one of the many advantages of middle age over middle school is that I don’t care. I have spent much of the last week alternating between two cotton shift dresses I got at the thrift store. These are cool and comfortable and flattering and they do not require me to balance on the edge of the tub. I still don’t have a full-length mirror, but I do have plenty of filthy affections.
When it cools off maybe I will get me a pair of legwarmers.
The nice shiny clothes never quite fit right—a little too tight here and too gappy there—but what was worse was the creeping self-doubt, niggling like an itchy label.
I didn’t have a full length mirror, so the last day of vacation would find me standing perched on the ledge of the bathtub, trying to get a good view of my first-day outfit in the medicine cabinet over the toilet.
Cute shirt! I would think. Sleek! Fashionable!
[long pause]
[teeter. wobble]
Maybe it would look better tucked in? Like this?
[tuck. teeter]
Or like that?
[re-tuck, wobble]
[long pause]
No, too dorky. Untucked then.
[try to stand on tiptoe. slip into tub]
Monica tucks in her shirts…
[tuck in. stagger. retuck.]
That looks good, right?
[long pause]
[wobble]
Oh God that looks stupid stupid stupid stupid.
[stomp. wobble]
Wait. Maybe like this.
[long pause]
[teeter]
That’s probably OK.
[wobble]
[pause]
Do I look like I’m trying too hard?
The next day I would head out the door into the blazing heat. In among the new books and the Pee-Chee folders, I’d discover that the lace was scratchy and the khakis stuck to my legs and that smudges and stains really show up on Qiana. By the end of the first week everything was completely wilted and I’d be back to my usual uniform of jeans and nerdy T-shirts.
I was never very good at fashion.
I’m still not, but one of the many advantages of middle age over middle school is that I don’t care. I have spent much of the last week alternating between two cotton shift dresses I got at the thrift store. These are cool and comfortable and flattering and they do not require me to balance on the edge of the tub. I still don’t have a full-length mirror, but I do have plenty of filthy affections.
When it cools off maybe I will get me a pair of legwarmers.
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