I despise humidity.

Honestly, I have no idea whether humidity is good for humanity. I don’t care. Like all things MAGA-related, it needs to disappear.

Are my hair appointments somehow registered with the National Weather Service because every damn time I leave a salon after spending an indecent amount of money on a haircut and color, the weather is atrocious, thick, wet and aggressively humid.

I step outside looking polished and expensive. Three minutes later, I resemble a cotton ball with lipstick.

Yesterday, I headed to Central Park at 8:30 in the morning, thinking I would beat the heat. How adorable of me. I lasted one hour. The air was so heavy and damp, it felt as though I were walking through a Turkish bath wearing clothes.

Nothing moved. Not the air. Not my hair. Eventually, not me.

By the time I got home, my face was shiny, my clothes were clinging to places they had no business visiting, and my hair had expanded into its own weather system.

Summer in New York is wonderful with the possibility of outdoor dining, long evenings, Central Park, rooftop cocktails.

But humidity?

Humidity is just the atmosphere sweating directly onto you.