Hot In The City

So it has arrived. The dreaded heatwave season.

I was an October baby. I was born outside Boston, brought into the world as the leaves were turning and the frost was coating the ground at night.  

I adore cold weather. I am one of those people who gets stopped on the street in January — in New York, no less, where our motto is say nothing — where I’m asked how I can go outside with my coat open. I get asked why I’m not wearing gloves, or a scarf, or a hat. I tell these strangers it’s too much for me. I am always too warm. I don’t put on a coat until the temperature dips below 45 degrees.

When the temperature begins to rise above 60, I mourn.

Oh, sure, the blossoming trees are gorgeous. I am happy to see the birds return. I love to see the turtles sunning themselves at Flushing Meadows Corona Park.

I would love to observe nature’s abundance and joy from a custom-made ice pack outfit, to keep me nice and cool. I love Costco in the summer, because they have a walk-in refrigerator. I curse the cab drivers who love warm weather and don’t turn on the A/C. I bring three bottles of frozen water on my bike rides, and periodically pour them over my head to cool off.

Of course, I married a man from San Diego, who wears parkas in 50-degree weather and adores 85-degree weather. He doesn’t know I turn off the heat in the bedroom in the winter. I pretend I don’t know he turns the A/C down.

I bring him an extra blanket in the cold. And he brings me icy drinks in the heat. Together, we meander through the year.

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