Summer may not have officially arrived yet, but no one told the thermostat this weekend. Holy smoked sausage, it was steamy.
For a girl who grew up in air-conditioning, I'm actually getting quite fond of our windows open, fans whirring sort of home. We have a lone air-conditioning window unit, stationed up on our third floor in a backyard-facing window (they are just way too ugly, in my opinion, to be a part of our [peeling paint] facade). But I don't like its loud metallic hum, or its blast of frigid air.
In fact, I've surprised myself by somewhat enjoying the heat. I crave ice water and fruit pops and -- get this -- I stood in the sprinkler last week. I sleep covered by a single cotton sheet, inhaling the night air perfumed by our almost withered peonies and irises.
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
I think deep thoughts, like "This is the way we're supposed to live" and "I'm so much more in tune with the changing seasons" and "Why yes, I should go get another fruit bar."
It's all very delicate and complex and beautiful (and survival mechanism-y) this acceptance of the impending summer heat. I think I'm actually warping myself mentally somehow, because I'm getting a sick enjoyment out of it. If things get too out of hand -- say, over 95 degrees in our home -- then yeah, that's miserable and we should seek alternate quarters immediately.
But other than that? This is how we're supposed to live, yinz.
For some of my most beloved, however, the rising mercury is a little less philosophical, and perhaps a little more prosaic...
Teddy: WTF is this?
My dogs will find a source of cool air -- a rotating fan, a tile floor, a vent -- and plop themselves directly next to it, nearly boxing each other out in an effort to get more of that sweet, sweet relief.
I'll sit with them downstairs in the living room, enjoying the sound of leaves rustling in the backyard and the warmth of a late afternoon, thinking about a nap, relishing the calm defeat that seems to overtake Bailey and Teddy when it's hot outside, when all they want to do is drink water and sleep...
...and then Kyle will take off for the cold wasteland that is the third floor, its artificial chill a siren song for the dogs. They slowly lumber up the stairs, lay in front of the window unit for fifteen frigid minutes, and then proceed to wrestle around and basically be crazy for as long as we'll keep them up there. I swear that they wake up half an hour earlier when it's a cool 60 degrees in that room. They cannot get enough.
On the plus side, one walk around the park is more than enough exercise for them in the heat, thank you. No Teddy antics on those days, no sir.
Kyle, too, when he's not lounging up on third floor, basically leaves the house the moment he can escape to the artificial air in our car. Once out of the shower before work in the morning, he puts on (the admittedly hot) attire of a working gentleman, makes a quick fly-by through the kitchen to grab a Fresca, and then sits in the SUV, waiting for me to finish my morning routine, blasting the AC at 58 degrees and cursing the impending summer.
But as for me?
I'm ready for a a season so hot, it fogs up my glass of pink champagne.
Here's to the unofficial kickoff of what's sure to be a beautiful summer.