Rainy season seems to have gone out with a whimper and a bang (the whimper being non-Typhoon Guchol and the bang being the days and days of rain following). The sky has changed from its May and June color of "dark white", as the GNG termed it, back to its luscious subtropical azure, with rings of dramatically fluffy white clouds ringing the little plateau we live on. So I need to record this particular side thorn before it disappears into that box of things-we'd-rather-not-remember. (I blame that box for why people who have lived in Okinawa compare it to Hawaii, thus misleading thousands of poor young military wives who don't get what they bargained for in coming here. But that's a post for another day.)
There is only one way to describe rainy season on the Rock. If you manage to sneak in a trip to the pool between storms, your towels and bathing suits will remain stubbornly moist through days of hanging. Your bare feet squelch as you walk across the linoleum, moist with sweat that has nowhere to go. You open the window in the bathroom after fogging the place up with a shower, and it is more humid outside than in. You try to slip into your sheets after a long hot day, and the sheets--no, could it be?--the sheets feel wet. Because they are. When you wake up in the morning and realize that you left the downstairs AC on all night, the windows are dripping with condensation. You have to turn down the AC in your car because you can't see through the moisture on your windows. You find it hard to remember to drink water because it feels like you're swimming about your daily tasks, your skin drinking in the moisture around you. You daily face the same health risks that you would if you lived in a wet sauna.
You set your dehumidifier to "moist" (as opposed to "dry" or "really dry") but still, the tank is full in four hours.
Without a hair dryer, your hair would still be wet when it's time for the next shower. A cold water bottle sweats puddles and buckets of water, drawing more moisture out of the air than the bottle even contains. Your definition for folding clothes changes from "dry" to "dry enough".
You check the shoes in your closet for mold. Your definition for outside toys changes from "mold-free" to "mold-free-enough".
But now it's summer. The relative humidity is a reasonable 84%. Some time before November, I'll be continuing this series with its next seasonal entry: On Heat.