It's been a rough week. I haven't really been home for the past forty-eight hours. Instead, I've become a drifter, floating from one person's couch to the next, always seeking to escape the heat.
That sounds a little melodramatic, but I am a little melodramatic, so get used to it (I just realized that may or may not have made me sound like a fourteen-year-old. That's what I get for writing whilst being in a sassy state of mind). By the way, what exactly is the difference between melodramatic and dramatic? Good question, Rachel. Let me look it up.
According to Julie Musil, who I just found on Google, "melodramatic = exaggerated, sensationalized, or overemotional, while dramatic = exciting or impressive. Good to know, thanks Julie! At least I've been using the word "melodramatic" correctly all these years.
Anyway. Where was I? Oh yeah. Dude, wasn't this week hot?
I have always been a huge fan of heat. Let me rephrase that. I adore heat with my entire being. Cold is good for choice moments of snuggling up next to the fire with a good book, or watching the snow fall outside, or the week leading up to (and the day of) Christmas. Beyond those events, I have zero percent interest in the cold. Chilliness? Sure, give me a nice sweatshirt so I can take a walk outside in the brisk morning air. But any colder than brisk, and going outside becomes a chore. More layers = more decisions about what to bring with you, and more work putting on and taking off your clothes. I know, I know, first world problems. But that's how I feel, and I'm stickin' to it.
But this is supposed to be a post about heat. What I was trying to say above before I started rambling is that I rarely mind being hot. Rare is the occasion when you can get me to sweat, so these few months of midwest summer are precious to me. Then came July 17-20, 2011. 123 heat index? Seriously? Add to that the fact that we don't have air conditioning in our apartment, nor do we have any kind of decent air flow, regardless of the fact that we had approximately eight fans blowing at any given time in our tiny space, and you've got heat exhaustion, my friend. After a hardly tolerable Sunday night followed by a completely unbearable Monday night (involving some extreme nausea and a panic attack ending in me rushing to the freezer to breathe in non-liquid air), I crashed at my friend Kezia's house on Tuesday, and then used an air mattress at Lauren and John's house on Wednesday. This morning, I awoke to a delightfully cool breeze, and a temperature reading on the Weather Channel site that told me it was 77, and, get this, that it felt like 77. Cue the angel chorus.
So now I'm home, after three days of either not being here or being here but not being able to move. And let me tell you...this place is a disaster zone. Not only do the fans (which now actually seem to be doing their job) take up about half the apartment, and drown out any sound that my feeble Mac tries to make, but there are piles of clothes (more than usual) strewn everywhere, our bed has become a place to discard any and all items that don't fit on the floor, and there seems to be more dust everywhere, somehow. It's odd that the amount of things I have to take care of makes me feel like I just got home from a trip, when really I've been in Minneapolis all along.
It is nice to be home, though. It was exciting to live out of a backpack and camp out at friends' houses, but I'm looking forward to laying on my bed (after I wash two nights' worth of sweat out of the sheets, of course) and taking a shower in my shower. I'm also feeling more appreciative of air conditioning (I never thought that day would come!), and am loving on the fact that I can sprawl out on my own futon with mah short shorts and a tank top on and write a blog post from a place that is my own. It's the little things. I think I'll leave the mess for awhile longer.