I know it's a little early to complain about the heat, but this summer is turning out to be a bit less air-conditioned than I could forsee. Way back in high school, I was the sweaty kid who didn't believe in wearing shorts (knobby knee shyness) and I frequently passed out in public places from heatstroke. Well, now I wear shorts, thank goodness. Or at least
mapris.
In college, I worked in a VERY air-conditioned Slide library and art gallery, climate-controlled to perfection. It was almost too chilly. And thus it was wonderful. I could wear pants to work, stand over the vent, and my sweaty, chafing thighs would get a little R&R. However, the moment I stepped outside to buy a sandwich, or rest in my summer dorm room, the wall of boiling heat would hit me. I'd think to myself, I've spent all glorious day cataloging images of the Sistene Chapel, and now that that's done, I want to rip off my epidermis because there's nothing more I can possibly remove to get cooler. Take me back to work! I won't take up much space sleeping underneath the light table.
After graduation, I worked in another gallery, but this time without air conditioning. Hot, yes, but I had 8 hours of continuous MadTV to watch, so that balanced out the radiating heat from the glass-block windows. I also lived in a farmhouse where the quaintness (and a tiny air conditioning unit) distracted me from the hotness.
The gallery I worked at in Boston had air conditioning. Theoretically. It did break one summer, gushing water down to the floor below, which consequently was displaying $5000 vintage advertising posters on its walls. Oops. I also was employed by a man who believed that if you cranked the thermostat all the way down in the middle of the day, the entire building would magically get cool in ten minutes, when a whole horde of wealthy guests were scheduled to arrive for cocktails. Little does he know that one has to start the day off very cold and plan ahead for these things. Instead, all of the wealthy guests would complain to me that it was too hot for them to buy anything, as I demurely stuff more napkins in my armpits to disguise the encroaching black circles on my blue dress shirt. Like a blessing from heaven, I'd return from work to an elaborate tunnel-funnel system of air conditioning in my apartment, which made my bedroom nice and chilly.
All this historical account of air conditioning leads up to this summer in Pittsburgh, where my two places of employment and my apartment are all currently un-air-conditioned. Therefore, it's epidermis-ripping time again. With hope, things will change soon. I think I'm getting an a/c unit next weekend for the apartment. I'm also working in my boss's office for some time during the summer, which is set to a pleasant 73F, unlike the closet we call my office.
However, right here, right now, at the ceramics store, the air conditioner is broken and will not be fixed in the forseeable future. I'm tempted to turn off all the lamps we sell to cut down on the excess heat from 70-watt bulbs. I've been entertaining myself by singing into the oscillating fan (hey-ey-ey my-y voi-oic-e is all chop-op-op-oppy!'), and hearing every customer come in and say 'Wow, it's hot in here!' or just turning right around and walking out the door as fast as they came in. I know that this is only the beginning of summer, and not even official summer yet, so I can expect up to twenty degrees hotter versions of this. Gosh, I have so much to look forward to!
I hear it's lovely in Greenland this time of the year. You know, with the glaciers, and the midnight sun, and not a degree past 55F to speak of (and that's a very hot day). When I return from the Arctic Circle, the leaves will be falling in Pittsburgh, and it will be time for everyone else to complain about the cold. They'll use words like 'bone-chilling', 'crisp', and 'nippy'. But you won't hear any complaints from me.
P.S. Caption for this photo: Christian Bale looks hot too. Courtesy of
pajiba.
Last week, I helped a professor clean out the personal belongings of a much-loved opera diva who recently passed away. We took dozens of baskets and stacked them up, cleaned off all the shelves, packed up the photo albums, and recycled all the papers. We dusted off the picture frames, and taped up boxes to be sent to the singer's family. I emptied the desk of its paper clips, keys that don't unlock anything, and piles of letterhead, and there among the junk was a beautiful practically-new box of Altoids. Which I promptly stuck into my pocket at a moment when the professor I was helping would not notice. Is that wrong? It feels a little creepy, but was Ms. Opera Diva going to need them now? Not unless there's a need for fresh breath in the afterlife. I wasn't about to let good things go to waste. But I can picture the scenario where I'm not just in her studio, but at her funeral, and there amongst the casket belongings are some minty-fresh treats. And I just reach in.
