The things you only really get if you’ve endured a Texas July:
That first whoosh of cold air walking into a gas station.
It’s holy.
Sitting on the porch, drink sweating faster than you.
Sweet tea, Shiner, or Topo - doesn’t matter.
Timing errands before 10am or after 7pm to avoid melting.
Driving with your fingertips because the steering wheel burns.
The wet slap of a sunbaked car seat on the back of your thighs.
Unreal.
Your grandpa claiming, “This ain’t hot. Summer of ’83, now that was hot.”
Swimming holes, creeks, and livestock tanks becoming daily destinations.
The sizzle of your boots on the asphalt.
Grilling dinner shirtless in 105° because `it’s already hot outside anyway.`
Eating dinner after dark, outside, when it’s finally dropped to 93° and “feels nice.”"
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