Hot Cars

I live in North Carolina, where on a summer day your car door will get hot enough to brand cattle. “On the count of three we’ll push Bessy up against the sedan.” If my car has been parked outside for more than 30 minutes, I am afraid to touch the door handle without some sort of hot pad, the kind of thing you use to remove a casserole from the oven. I would be better prepared except I worry that it would look a little strange if I was seen walking through a parking lot while wearing shorts, flip flops, and oven mitts.