I. HATE. BEING. HOT.
Unfortunately, I feel hot sooner than just about everyone in the entire world. My brother hugged me once, held me away at arm’s length, frowned, and said, “What’s wrong with you? You feel like a heater.”
That’s exactly what it feels like – like a heater in my bones got turned on in the middle of summer and nobody ever bothered to turn it off. Can someone unplug this thing?
So of course I chose to live in the tropics. And then Georgia. I’s real smart.
In the islands, there are a few things that are absolutely precious, worth their weight in gold – alcohol, toilet paper, ice, and air conditioning. Every boat had alcohol and toilet paper (don’t you dare run out!), but not all boats could produce or keep ice; and air conditioning was definitely a luxury item for the true yachts.
Some boats charged extra to run the air conditioning during the day and/or night – but not our boat. Being the chef, down in <strike>Hades</strike> my galley all day long… with the oven and stovetop burners running… with my body temperature issues… I absolutely demanded air conditioning. DE. MAN. DED. My husband obliged, of course. I have sharp knives. And he loves me.
When we made our final departure from the Virgin Islands heading stateside in March, I hoped/wished/prayed/did weather dances that Georgia would be cold. I begged the universe for snow, even – I. LOVE. SNOW.
When we stepped off the plane, grabbed our baggage, and walked out of the Atlanta airport, I could see my breath. It was cold, GLORIOUSLY COLD. I spread my arms wide and shouted, “FREE AIR CONDITIONING!” I got a few looks, as if to say, “Who is the crazy lady enjoying this cold weather?”
Hi, hey there, that would be me, the crazy lady who’s ALWAYS STINKING HOT. Side note: cutting bangs at the beginning of summer was a really, really, REALLY bad idea. Darn you to heck, tequila.