Melting chocolate never made me so happy

It's so hot, the chocolate bars in my purse have melted. 

It's only mid-May.

You would be forgiven to assume that I must be on vacation in a tropical location somewhere, with palm trees and sandy beaches and fruity drinks with a little umbrella in it at lunchtime - where else would it be so warm that your candy bars melt in your purse, in the shade?

But I'm not on vacation.
I live in a place now where the temps can reach mid-thirties (Celsius) in mid-May, and I don't think it will ever get old.

I dreamed of that growing up.
When I was a kid, the rule we were taught was that you could only walk barefoot during months without a "R" in it: May-August. It was an easy rule to follow, because all the other months were so freaking cold, nobody in their right mind would ever have attempted to walk barefoot anyways - it was an act of courage to do that for most of the permitted months.

But here I am, at 7:30 at night, and it's still 28 degrees Celsius. A warm breeze is blowing, and the air is perfumed with the sweet scent of lilac. The dogs lie all around me, lazy and panting, doing what we all should be doing much more of: enjoying the moment. They're content to be together, to be close to me, and to be in the shade, with the soft breeze cooling them down.

None of us could be any happier.
I never thought I would live in a place where it's so hot that chocolate bars melt in my purse, in May.

Yet here I am. 

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