It is summer. For at least three - long - months, the days will be hot, humid and long. Friends talk of boating, swimming, picnics, softball, and lazy evenings spent on the porch. I talk of nothing. I can't. I have to save my energy to get through the day in spite of the sun-induced headaches and the overwhelming listlessness that comes with the sort of heat that presses down on you, forcing you to walk slowly, if not crawl.
In truth, I should be genetically disposed to love the heat. I grew up in the deep south and days in the 90's were routine for almost half the year. In my youth, I relished high temperatures. The slightest whiff of cold air would send me shivering for a sweater and movie theaters required heavy coats.
But something changed. In my early 20's I moved to NYC. In January. When making the plans for this move, I decided that I should find out early whether I could tolerate a winter up north, and if not, I could move home sooner rather than later, before making friends, getting comfortable - settling in. I arrived in early January to find snow on the ground.
The room I had rented via mail, in a hotel for women, was nothing like the charming pictures in their brochure. Those showed smiling women in sweater sets and pearls sitting and reading by warm lamp light in a cozy, nicely furnished room. They were obviously taken several decades before I arrived. The actual room - er, suite - had beaten-up furniture, a stove with two burners, one of which didn't work and the other which would not get hot enough to boil water, a minuscule sink and fridge and NO HEAT. Forget the cockroaches that fell through gaps in the ceiling. Forget the women who sat in the hallways during the day, drinking from bottles concealed in brown paper bags and screaming obscenities at those of us who passed by. There was NO HEAT. Did I mention that this was January?
Surprisingly, this did not cause me to run to the airport and catch the next plane home. Intrepid adventurer that I believed myself to be, I simply went out the next day and bought an electric blanket, which I wore around myself whenever I was in the room. I also quickly found a job which enabled me to spend my days in a heated building. Finally, I began to realize that my winter clothes had not been intended for real winters and they didn't keep me very warm. In addition, I learned that open-toed shoes in 20 degree weather, especially when worn while trying to catch a cab on Broadway post-theatre (which means there were no cabs free for a very long time) - were an invitation to frost-bite.
Still, I stayed and I learned to dress for the weather and ... slowly ... I guess my blood thickened. A couple of years down the line, I realized that my new favorite month was - February! I loved the grey skies, the cold, the yellow slushy snow - all the stuff I'd hated such a short time before. I'd walk miles in my heavy coat and hat, savoring the winds that bit my face, laughing when they whipped so hard that I had to turn my head to catch a breath. I loved the ritual of dressing to go out - the scarves, the layers of sweaters, the thermal underwear, the coat, the gloves, the hats, the boots - knowing that I would not be beaten by the elements.
So after this transition, when I had begun to loathe summer, dreading the muggy heat as much as I looked forward to snow drifts, I moved again. To New Orleans.
Then began the task of re-learning to dress for heat and not just for four to six weeks, but for months at a time. I discovered that sweating is downright unpleasant and that my energizer-bunny style of walking slowed to tortoise speed as I pushed through the steam of summer streets. My beautiful wool clothes sat on shelves, gathering dust. My heavy-with-warmth coats were used as costumes in plays. My hair refused to curl. This was not the happy heat of my childhood memories; this was stultifying, lethargy-creating leaden heat.
Of course, as humans do, I adjusted once again, though I never did regain an appreciation for temperatures above 75. In New Orleans, the heat is a character in one's life. As one tolerates a bigoted, ignorant uncle, or accepts a beyond-eccentric aunt, one comes to terms with the weather and learns to overlook the daily annoyances it causes. (One also learns that one can stay hydrated if one drinks a great deal of alcohol, as long as the alcohol is stirred into fruit juices, milk, sodas, etc.) So this new character in my life and I found something akin to a truce. I went about my days much as usual, only at 33 rpms, rather than 78, and I traded in my woolen chapeaux for straw sun-hats.
I no longer live in New Orleans - or NYC. I live between the two, in a land where summer is long and oppressive and winter comes with snow and frigid temps. In the former, as I am now, I fondly recall struggling through feet of snow and reverently stroke my cashmere sweaters. In the latter, I remind myself to treasure the moments, no matter how long the wait for the bus or how icy the streets.
Genetics, be damned!
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