Here it is midsummer - again - and I find myself pondering that age-old question: If you see a heat wave, should you wave back?

We inherently polite Southerners obviously answered, “Yes.” That was our mistake. If we didn’t wave, maybe Mr. Heatwave would get his feelings hurt and go away.

The good folks at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, mercifully known as NOAA, have done the math and informed us that last month was the hottest June on record. Ever.

Can’t say I was surprised. I reached the same conclusion a few weeks ago when I burned my bare feet on my asphalt driveway and nearly had a heat stroke on the way to the mailbox. It was all of 10 a.m.

July hasn’t exactly been a slouch in the heat department either. I spent a recent afternoon mulling a serious clothing question: What is the absolute least I can wear and not be totally mortified should a neighbor knock on the door?

I made what I consider a daring decision, but I’m not telling. You’ll have to knock on the door to find out.

Meanwhile, I have another problem, and I’m not talking about the utility bill.

I’m not talking, period. That’s the problem.

Last winter, when Hell froze over and temperatures in LaGrange stayed below freezing for days on end, I got so sick of shivering that I made a rash promise.

“I’m so sick of being cold. Next summer, when it’s scorching outside, I’m not going to complain, not one word. Just let it warm up, and I promise I will not gripe, will not moan, will not whine, no matter how hot it gets.”

Me and my big mouth.

Not one bad word about the heat? I’ve been struggling mightily to keep that promise. So far, the only thing that’s worked is to zip my lips. (As in, if you can’t say something nice, keep your mouth shut.)

But if you can’t talk about the heat in Georgia in the summertime, well, you’re pretty much out of most conversations. Nobody seems to talk about anything else.

So, since I can’t say anything - and don’t dare write anything - that might be construed as a complaint about the heat, I’ve decided to take a different approach. I’m going to pour a huge, frosty glass of iced tea and complain about the humidity instead.

You know humidity. It’s the experience of seeking air and finding water.

Humidity is to hairdos what blight is to tomatoes. Wilt, wilt, wilt.

Humidity turns a stroll around the yard into a sweat bath.

Humidity makes us sticky, icky and grouchy. Really grouchy.

You know the old expression: Everybody gripes about the weather, but nobody does anything about it. With humidity, it’s gripe and wipe. At our house, we go through towels and T-shirts faster than you can say “heat index.”

Actually, I do recall one occasion when someone did something about the weather. It was my girlchild and she was all of 10 years old at the time.

She was headed to summer camp in the middle of a heat wave. I fretted mightily over the prospect of leaving her to swelter, top-bunked in a cabin that barely had electricity, much less air-conditioning.

I bought her a little battery-powered fan and fried her brain with mini-lectures about staying hydrated and using sunscreen.

She took it as long as she could and finally said, wearily, “Mama, I know it’s hot, but I’m not going to worry about it. I’m going to have fun.”

I told you she did something about the weather. She ignored it.

That’s probably easier when you are 10 years old, but I’m going to try it for the duration of the heat wave.

Right now, however, I have a job to do.

I’m going out to the broiler, I mean the yard. I’m going to look skyward, let the sun beat down on my face until the sweat pours (that should be about three seconds). Then I’m going to memorize the feeling.

Next winter, when it’s really cold, I plan to remember that sticky, icky feeling. And keep my mouth shut.

One rash promise is one too many.

Andrea Lovejoy is former editor of LaGrange Daily News.