Just as I was clicking along, zippedy doo, working on the re-write for Book 1 and coming up with new blog entries for Book 2, writing every afternoon for at least a couple of hours in my comfy purple chair (see below)
Put plainly, my home air conditioning died.
Not only that, but the AC in the office died too.
Both succumbed on the hottest week (thus far) this summer. In a half-decade of lackluster, sometimes chilly bummer summers, this one is stellar in its crushing, sauna-like grip. Don’t get me wrong. I like hot. I need hot. Snow is not my friend. However, as much as one needs sunshine and light, no one needs breath-stealing humidity, and being in the Midwest, this summer’s Humidex has been going just as crazy as the high temperatures.
I once had heat exhaustion so I’m prone to having a relapse. Take it from one who knows: this particular ailment is not fun at all. I’m also suffering from the Big M (menopause). Believe it or not, I can tell the difference between flashes. Neither are pretty, but there are nuances. One can die from heat exhaustion while menopause is just a momentary symptom of upcoming death.
Warding off potential danger, I have hydrated myself to the extreme (gaining a good gallon of weight in the meantime), cut the alcohol consumption down to an occasional cosmopolitan, loaded the freezer with popsicles and spent a great deal of time in my car, which thankfully does have AC.
Being uncomfortably hot cuts into my creative jizz (as my daughter would say). You know it’s bad when I crave the chilly confines of the mall. (I hate the mall.)
Right now I am moderately cranky. The HVAC man isn’t coming until tomorrow.
I might have to do what those trendy writers do, and take my laptop to the nearest Starbucks.