Whenever the first sweltering day of summer arrives, I inevitably think of my friend J. She once said she feels sexiest this time of year -- beads of warm sweat on bronzed skin shimmering through tiny bits of clothing, shared heat simmering between bodies, summer music that makes you want to shake your hips with your arms high in the air.
I've always had a nagging suspicion that my friend J mentally transports herself to an island paradise once it's bathing suit season again, no matter where she happens to be. As for me, summer fills me with dread. It gives me horrific visions of being drenched in my work clothes during my daily commute, sweat and city soot intermingling into a kind of urban mud. In the summer I am as still as the trees in the absence of a breeze, the only way I've learned to expend the least amount of energy possible. When I feel hot I don't want anyone remotely near me -- I don't need more steam emanating from another overheated body.
I do understand that we've all got to sweat, but I happen to think there's appropriate clothing for that. If I were wrong then would Lululemon be the bazillion-dollar company it is? Would we spend 90 bucks on yoga pants if it didn't wick away moisture, allow our skin to breathe, and prevent chafing? We buy overpriced tanks and tees so we can sweat comfortably (an oxymoron if there ever was, if you ask me).
I do not like heat. I moved to Seattle for the weather, after all. But today it's 80 degrees and I'm already mildly cranky. I want to hit every person who tells me, happily, to enjoy the warm sun.
I happen to like it cold. Even in the winter, when it's 30 degrees outside, I sleep with a fan to circulate the frigid air around the room. If I could will the weather, it would be 68 degrees every day, give or take a few degrees in either direction.
This means, of course, that I am unable to share space with anyone who likes it warm all the time, especially indoors. It's my non-negotiable; I refuse to budge on this -- for anyone at all. I tell anyone who complains or argues that one can layer on clothes endlessly but I can only take so many off until both of us are at ease.
But my friend G, now his love for his wife C apparently knows no bounds. I've known the guy for a long time, and we've actually agreed that a thermostat setting of 70 degrees is both reasonable and comfortable for most people. But C is not one of these people -- she starts getting chilly when it's below 75 degrees. So when she moved into his house after they got married, he fired up the floor furnace to a toasty low 80s, where it's remained ever since. In the car the temperature is automatically set to 77. I'm certain he has suffered greatly, especially as he was acclimating, but he has never complained, not once, says C.
Clearly, his love for her burns -- literally. But I say if you want to love me then you've simply got to chill.
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