I think I'm a big baby. I've already been chastised for wimpiness by a Texan because I cannot function in this heat. I'm sure it's not worse here in Pittsburgh than it was in NYC. Yet I cannot move. Or clean. Or certainly cook.
Yesterday, we left the bedroom air conditioner on all day so I could retreat in there to my fainting couch while Corey brought me Miller Light. (Did I really write several weeks ago that I loathe air conditioning? This must have been before humidity moistened my life) I woke up really early, too, because I had to catch up with the filth that has taken over the apartment while I'm teaching summer school. Every half hour of scrubbing required an outfit change and at least 2 hours of recovery lounging. I wanted to take the Magic Eraser to my skin and scrub off the clammy flesh clinging to my overheated body.
By the time Deadwood came on at 9pm, I had drunk my way far beyond any ability to work on my writing projects and was somehow hotter than I was before Miller time.
I sluggishly relocated to a fainting couch in the living room and propped lunch box freezer packs all over my body and moaned at God's cruelty in creating humidity. And then I looked at Leon and Alma and my other Deadwood friends. I remembered the stifling heat of South Dakota and how we abandoned our campsite in the desert, unable to deal with it. But really I was unable to deal with it and demanded we move on to Wyoming.
I see a pattern forming. On the very first entry of this blog, Corey describes me having heat stroke on move-in day. Am I using the heat as an excuse to avoid work? Am I allowing myself to seem ill so others will toil while I lounge? Or, more probable on this 93 degree day with 43% humidity, are humans just not meant to operate under such conditions and I'm the only one smart enough to figure it out?