Drippy

I keep thinking of a particular episode of Seinfeld.  Or, rather, a specific line from a specific episode.  It’s one of the later ones, where Elaine is dating Puddy, and she learns that he’s super-duper religious.  But he hasn’t once attempted to save her soul, figuring she’s doomed for all eternity.  She becomes irate when she realizes that she means so little to him that he’s not even going to try to save her soul, and goes on to describe how awful hell is, ending with my favorite Seinfeld line, ever:

"And the heat, my God, THE HEAT!"

I’m kind of feeling for Elaine these days.  I feel like I’m living in an oven.  I can’t adjust the thermostat and turn down the temp on the city to livable conditions.

In the mornings I wake up, and venture out from the air-conditioned bedroom.  When I step into the hallway, it’s like walking into a warm, wet blanket.  By the time I get the water diverted from the bath faucet to the shower, I’ve already worked up a good sweat, and can feel a trickle down my back that tickles and annoys.  The water in the shower is always the same – either too hot or too cold.  It would seem that a cold shower would feel good, but in reality, it’s too shocking first thing in the morning. 

Blow-drying my hair has become one of my least favorite things to do.  I stand in the bathroom, dryer in one hand, brush in the other, willing my hair to become thick and lustrous and wavy without the need to wash and dry it every single day.  It never happens.  I should learn to get dressed in my work clothes after I dry my hair, but apparently I’m not that bright.  So I end up with pretty hair, but sticky, uncomfortable clothes.

Since he got a new job, Mr. M and I have been walking to the train together in the mornings.  It’s nice – we ride together until I have to switch trains at the red line.  Today, you could feel that the temperature had already peaked and the humidity was high.  By the time we got on the train, I had dug a Kleenex out of my bag and was mopping my face with it.  Not dabbing, mopping.  My hair gets spidery in this weather – that’s what Mr. M calls it.  That means that the little stray hairs around my face stick to the sweat on my forehead and temples, making a spiderweb of dark brown against my fair (but tan to me this year!) skin.  I try to push the hair off my face, and I end up slicking my hair back at my temples but then it just sticks out strangely, just like it used to in junior high, only then I used to use a vent brush and tons of hairspray for the "volumizing" effects of my hair bursting out of my head at my ears at a 90 degree angle. 

Once we’re on the train I cool off a little, but I always end up sitting directly in the sun.  The airvents in the windows make the sleeve of Mr. M’s work shirt flutter, and I will the air to hit me in the face as if aerodynamics can be bent to my will.  "You’re upper lip is still all sweaty," Mr. M helpfully points out.  I don’t kick him.

Evenings are the worst.  After spending the day downtown, in sub-zero air conditioning and with the breezes off the lake, it just makes the heat in our apartment seem worse. 

Usually after work I end up having to stop by White Hen for milk or bread or something on the way home, so I end up walking rather than taking a bus from the el stop.  By the time I reach our building, my hands are so sweaty I can barely hold the plastic bag, let alone fumble for my keys.  I do take my time checking our mail, though – for some reason, the vestibule in our building stays miraculously cool, like it’s got a hidden A/C unit. 

Trudging up the three sets of stairs to our third-floor apartment takes every bit of strength of will I have left at the end of the day.  You read that right – in our building, you have to walk up a flight of stairs to get to the first floor, then it’s two more flights after that to reach our treehouse apartment.  Our stairs have a skylight at the top, which is nice and makes them bright during the day, but it also acts as a kind of greenhouse, focusing the suns heat to the hallway right outside of our apartment door.

We’re lucky we live on the top floor, though, because we can leave our windows open all day.  Daytime burglars would have to scale down from the roof to break into our building, and even in our neighborhood that would be spotted and seen as "unusual."  So whatever breeze has been stirring throughout the day has kept the air circulating a little bit, but not much.  Not enough to feel cool.

The walk from the store and up the stairs always flattens me, so I usually dump my bag and keys, drop any parcels on the table, and run to the bathroom to rinse my face in cold water and run cold water on my wrists to bring my body temperature down.  It feels great for about 15 seconds, and those 15 seconds are the best I’ll feel all night.

After dinner – if we make dinner, last night I just had a tuna sandwich and Mr. M had leftover falafel from the night before, because the thought of boiling water for pasta just about killed me – it’s one of the worst parts of the day for me.  For some reason, it seems like the temperature actually goes up in the evening hours after sunset.  I don’t understand it, I just know that my body knows that that’s true.  So I let Mr. M control the remote, and I lay on the couch, trying to get comfortable, hating the thought that I’m sweating into the fabric of the couch, and the couch is a cheap chenille that itches my skin and is hot and itchy and dear lord, I can’t take this, but it’s too hot to move.  I can’t seem to get my hair off of my neck, and end up reaching for the clip and three barrettes I had in my hair last night which I’ve left on the coffee table (or, as a barefoot Mr. M once pointed out, on the floor).  But they aren’t enough, not nearly enough, and I keep slicking back the stray hairs off my forehead and the back of my neck with my own sweat which grosses me out but there’s nothing to be done.

I have the attention span of a gnat in this weather.  I know I need to do a list of chores that grows longer each day.  Dishes sit in the sink, bills pile up on my desk, dust bunnies are taking over under the couch and the cobwebs are growing so thick in the corners everything looks faintly blurred at the edges.  But I don’t care, I’m a lump, a hot, sticky lump with no energy that can’t even focus on a half-hour TV show from the couch, let alone focus on moving enough to do housework.

I end up going to bed earlier and earlier each night.  And sleeping later and later each morning.  I feel that if I took an IQ test before the summer started, and another one now, I’d score at least 20 points lower. 

I can’t remember the last time it rained.  Chicago’s in the middle of a drought, and I know it’s bad, but in actuality I don’t care.  I know people believe that the rain will cool things off, but you can’t fool me.  Rain in this kind of heat is miserable.  It means puddles and mud to walk through, jungle-like humidity shrouding you with no means of cutting through it; no machete can slice it.  The hot rain may get you wet but doesn’t cool you off, and you breathe in the damp and your lungs feel saturated and heavy and you dream of the day when you can walk around and not feel your underwear mildew while you’re wearing them.

I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.

Oh, Elaine.  I hear what you’re saying.  If this is what hell’s like, I better clean up my act.