I’m ashamed to say that 98 degrees is apparently the limit for me; I’ve been drawn, all too willingly, into the alluring oasis that is the air-conditioned house.
“Feel free to hang out in the air conditioning,” one of my cat sitting clients wrote in a note left on the kitchen counter.
“Pshaw,” I said to myself, while mashing the cat’s food out of its can-like form, “I can survive without such inventions. An oscillating fan is all I require.”
And yet, this evening I somehow found myself on the doorstep of that modern house, with more than cat feeding in mind.
I basked in the air conditioning, in the rapid cooling of the sweat on my brow and neck, in the goosebumps that eventually rose on my legs, in the delicate hum of the blessed machine itself.
Abandoning any premise of making study flashcards while I watched, I slumped on the couch, motionless, for the full two hours of Up in the Air.
It was glorious.