The air conditioner was broken. And so was my heart.
With no more cold air pouring through its vents, the inside of my house
shot up to about 85 degrees.
Which, really, is not all that hot. People who are lost in the Sahara,
crawling through the sand on their hands and knees, desperately hoping
to find water and falling for that old mirage trick over and over again,
probably would be really happy about an 85-degree day.
So the fact that I found it unbearable made me feel like a huge pansy,
the kind of girl who buys "mild" salsa.
The problem is that having been born and raised in Texas, I like to
present myself as more heat-tolerant than I actually am. "I see it's
only 92 degrees in Chicago," I'll sneer as I am spending my evenings
watching the Weather Channel. (My life is very sad and lonely.) "That's
practically a winter's day here in Texas. I'd be wearing a sweater, and
thermal underwear, and wool socks, if it were only 92 degrees here
."
But that is a lie. I really loathe being hot. It makes me sweaty, and
sweat only looks good on professional athletes and porn stars (and in
both cases, only when they are "on the job").
The evening of The Great Air Conditioner Meltdown, the guy who was
instructed not to touch me with a single sweaty paw and I had to sleep
with the windows open. We felt like brave pioneers. I tightened my
bonnet strings and threw the quilt off the bed. There was no need of it
here, not on the Oregon Trail.
I know that sleeping with the windows open shouldn't be a big deal. I
even know that "up north" (any area that is not Texas) many people don't
even HAVE air conditioning. They use things like fans and open windows
EVERY DAY OF THE SUMMER to keep from dying horrible heat-related
asphyxiation deaths.
Whatever. That's their problem. I am a Texan and I deserve for my
digital Star Trek-style thermostat to control my habitat down to
the last degree.
But we were afraid to call a repair company. Even though we are nigh-30
years old and homeowners, we are frightened of doing things that could
potentially be construed as "grown-up." So we decided to wait and see if
the air conditioner might, you know, just start working again.
AND IT DID. When I came home the next night the house was miraculously
back down to 74 degrees. I don't know what happened, nor do I care.
"Maybe it was some kind of warning," my boyfriend said ominously.
I told him to shut up, and help me untie this stupid bonnet.
Jessica will never be cool, not even with a working air conditioner.
E-mail her at jburgess@quickdfw.com.
