The 7 stages of dealing with Arizona’s heat

Many things bind Phoenicians together:

• Hiking the beautiful mountains — mostly when visitors come into town.
• Turning left on a stoplight long after it turned red.
• Fearing insects, because even though we have fewer insects than other places, the insects we do have actively try to kill us, including regular bees who join forces to take a few people out every year at random, and those super huge bees (“carpenter bees”) that apparently won’t kill you but will make you flinch like a little girl when they buzz by you.  

But mostly, the thing we share living in Phoenix is the roller coaster of emotions we have coping with the heat. We bask in the nice weather during the “winter,” and we run the gamut of emotions when dealing with the heat.

Here are the 7 stages we go through every year:

Stage 1: Mild panic. Sometime in February there’s a brief hot spell where the temperature rises to about 85. It seems like things are escalating too quickly. Those couple of nights in December and January in the upper 30s apparently took away any tolerance we had developed to warm weather and this minor temperature bump stirs a little panic. Like when you find yourself rocking out to that one randomly awesome Miley Cyrus song — it’s not a major event, but it’s troubling.

Stage 2: Sadness. The first 100 degree day provokes sadness, especially if it’s in early April. We wonder why the first settlers decided to make a home here in the Valley, not up in Prescott.  Or why didn’t they all settle in California? Did they predict the high taxation and that weird thing where motorcycles whip between lanes on the freeway and scare the bowel movement out of you?

Stage 3: Shock. The first 110+ degree day, hopefully in June, occasionally in May, always surprises us by reminding us just how hot that is. Like, it hurts to touch things that have been in the sun, including your shirt. In my old car (not the Camaro), my rear view mirror melted off. That’s weird.

Stage 4: Excitement. When the first monsoon storm sweeps in, usually around July 4th. So exciting. Unless you’re on the road driving toward it.

Side note: Many people in the Midwest don’t know about our monsoon. How is that possible? If there was a dust storm building in the distance right now, I would be paralyzed by intense interest. It’s like if Grumpy Cat had a wrestle-off with Mannheim Steamroller. You shouldn’t need to watch it, but you’re only a man.

Stage 5: Resignation. By late July, even with occasional monsoon storms, we just leave town, generally to San Diego. You know how sometimes your wife turns on HGTV, and you’re like, I don’t mind watching these folks look for a house in suburban Tulsa. And after that, another episode, and another, and then by about the fourth one, you’re like, I hate this lady. Why is this guy even with her, and why on Earth are they moving to Fresno? They think the deal breaker with this three-bed, two-bath rambler is that it doesn’t have a bigger master suite? How about the fact that the kitchen is from 1985 and it has the curb appeal of a dirty cabbage? And then you realize you’ve reached your limit, so you grab the remote and turn on Sportscenter. It’s like that.

Stage 6: Anger. By early October, long after the vacations, when it’s still 100, even the gentlest Phoenicians are so tired of the heat that they just want to get into a fight. With anyone. It’s not that any single day of our heat is that bad; it’s certainly better than a bad winter day in the Midwest. The difference is a week after their -20 day, they get a +20 day that feels like summer. Here, every day is 100+ for five months. I transform from a reasonable, caring man to an indecent, offensive neck-puncher. And so do you, jerk.

Stage 7: Relief. But then all is forgiven on that October morning when you walk outside to a chill in the air (i.e., low in the upper 60s — settle down, Midwesterners). Break out the long-sleeve shirts and full-length yoga pants, and bundle up like we’re in Game of Thrones because winter is coming and in about six weeks it’s going to be 39 degrees some night, which feels so cold after living through summer that it hurts your feelings.

Phoenix is a melting pot. Literally. Pots are melting.

But at the end of the day, all Phoenicians — no matter if we’re from Iowa, Mexico, or in rare instances, Arizona — can band together and commiserate about the relentless heat and awe in wonder at the storm building on the horizon that occasionally brings magic water from the sky. We’re all in this together. There’s nowhere else we’d rather be.

Now I have to go pack for our trip to San Diego.

Dominic Verstegen is a 40-something dad living in Phoenix and documenting his life in occasional columns. Reach him at dominic.verstegen@yahoo.com and on Twitter @DVerstegen1.