It's a myth that red wine doesn't go with fish
Days after my friend S had her first kid, I visited their home on the south coast of England. There, I gazed upon the new trio: my friends, previously two unencumbered adults who had joined in holy matrimony (I had been a bridesmaid) and now their newly created tiny person, a small bundle that occasionally made the cutest coos and yawning sounds. I fell in love with her, and understood immediately that what I felt must be a mere drop in the ocean of feels coming from her parents. We spent a lovely weekend together before I had to catch my train back to London.
At one point, S leaned over to me, her eyes full of love as well as the telltale ring of blooming, maddening tiredness. I'd asked her to be straight with me about the pain. She said to me, in a sweet voice, It's the worst thing I've ever known. When my eyes widened, she nodded, like she'd said something very mild, something like: It's a myth that red wine doesn't go with fish, before adding, The midwife told me the hormones would make me forget the pain over time. But I haven't forgotten yet. Don't do it.
It's been years, and I will never forget that conversation.
This is a very longwinded way to intro the subject of this letter, which is memory, and what we choose to remember, or forget. In the grip of July in New York, I am remembering London in a very fond light. The driving summer rain AKA the bane of my very existence, has softened to a light drizzle. What is a feature, my memory has dubbed a bug. When I inhale the smell of summer in this city (wet gangrene), I remember the scent of the fresh cut grass of London's many parks. Of course, there was also always the less fragrant stench of dog poo mixed in. A Pimm's in the park or in a pub garden was always more of an idea than a reality. (I miss the parks, though. My memory is not faking how green—and how accessible that green!—London is.)
I hate AC. I was raised in Europe—where they are largely needless in domestic settings—and in Nigeria, where... well, where air-con is very much not for the many but for the few. I like fans. I like how natural they feel, and I found the sound of the whirring deeply comforting, especially at night. Anyway, this past Saturday was a sweaty one. I was doing cartoon sweating, which is when beads of sweat form on a character's brow just as quick as they can wipe them. I could feel the sweat travelling: small beads connecting with larger ones, before gaining enough weight and picking up enough speed so that gravity could do its thing. Do you remember when you were a kid, and you were in the car and it was raining, and you would follow the progress of a single droplet of water down the window? OK, well change the canvas from 'car window' to 'Bim's human face'. Now plaster a grimace on 'Bim's human face' as well as the occasional hiss as the sweat falls into her eye before she can reach it with a sweat rag. So miserable!
This is my second summer in New York, and the thing—the end point of this rambling letter—is that I don't remember it being this hot? Like, true: I was living in a morgue-like ground floor apartment this time last year, and true: I now live on what feels like the surface of the sun aka a bright fourth floor walk-up. But even so! The sweat was collecting in rivulets down my back settling in the waistband of my pants and making everything just... clammy. My neck was slick all day. A waterfall of sweat ran down my chest. If I had been hit by a freakish lightning bolt and turned into a superhero, I would be known as The Sweat Drop, and my (useless) superpower would be perspiring at the speed of light. I craved the heat back in the winter, and like all human before and after me, I don't want it now that I've got it.
Anyway. That's me. Sweating freely.
I got a couple hours' respite when I went to see Girls Trip in an air-conditioned cinema with my girl, N. I want you to all go and watch it as soon as you're able. It's a delight. Put some respect on every single one of the leads' names. They are magnificent. And shoutout to Tracy Oliver, who co-wrote the screenplay with Black-ish creator, Kenya Barris — she's come a long way from producing /co-writing The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl web series with Issa Rae. Look at progress!