I sniff the flowers because when the wind blows it smells like someone needs some Teen Spirit

The air was so sticky that every time you bent your arm, your inner-elbow-skin stuck to itself momentarily. The little hairs by my ears curled up into spirals, and the straight hair on the top of my head frizzed up. The backs of mens' shirts stuck and left wet marks, and women had drops of sweat at their hair line.

And my brother decided, "Yes! Hot! Let's get married under a tent that blocks all air flow and bakes in the sunlight. Come, wife-to-be, let's don black tuxes, navy dresses and that big white dress and go stand outside! Love! It's in the air! And it feels just like humidity!"

My brother, who has more of an overheating problem than my old Geo Prizm did one hot summer, and his then-fiancee-now-wife chose June because they'd be between semesters in college. It'd be nicer weather. Right?

Yeah. It didn't work out that way.

At the rehearsal, my brother showed us all up with his shorts and T-shirt combo, electric fan-and-water bottle combination and utter inability to concentrate on anything unless he was standing like he was in the middle of doing the robot.

"This is the worst mistake of the year," he said to the wedding party on the afternoon before his 5:30 p.m. ceremony. We looked around uncomfortably. For the man who had just gotten sick (not to be confused with the dog) and was having problems doing anything but concentrating on breathing and not-passing-out, was saying -- aloud -- that it was the worst mistake? Because I paid good money for this dress. And my hair? It looked good.

"No, not the marriage. That part's OK. But June? God, this is the worst mistake of the year."

And we nodded. Because yes. Tuxes and plastic shoes stink in the heat. And that sun? It wasn't going anywhere. Ay-ch. Oh. Tee. Hot.