First let me say, I grew up here. Not exactly here. But here in the Northeast. And, as I have mentioned, after a five-year pit-stop in Southern California, we decided it was time to bring the flock home to the
extreme gloriously diverse seasons. Who wants 75 degrees and sunny every single day? That’s for the birds! But not these birds. East we flew.
The major preoccupation we had before our migration (other than the silly detail of finding employment) was the cold, bitter, cheek-slapping winters. With our move scheduled for January 1st, it was a valid concern. But alas, we dodged a snowball this year. Our frantic, last-minute gifts of snow suits, coats, hats and mittens have collected dust in the hall closet as spring reigned victorious over winter and snuffed out the cold. It seems as though Los Angeles’ winter stowed away in our Sienna to vacation in the East.
But, just as were feeling cocky about pulling the wool hat over the eyes of Madam Wicked Winter of the East, Summer has appeared without warning, reminding us that there is more than one season capable of bestowing some unpleasant days and nights.
I have heard people talk about the difference between 110° heat in a dry climate vs. 90° in high humidity and I never bought into the theory that it doesn’t feel as hot in the desert. 110 seemed plenty toasty to me, especially since I spent a couple of these seasons waddling and swollen with child. I’d say “pish posh” on the idea that aridness makes 110 bearable. Pish Posh!
However, yesterday unfolded as follows:
The morning began with a sweltering walk to the train. Although quite certain I was not with child, I waddled through thick, hot gobs of suffocating moisture, fingers and toes swollen, sweat dripping down my neck.
After 8:30 pm, the sun vacated the premises, but sneaked off without its heat. During the wee hours, we frantically ran to-and-fro from crib to crib to tend to screaming, sweaty babies who have grown accustomed to sleeping in footed jammies under central air during rising temperatures. I spouted in panic to my husband.
“There’s something wrong! Their hair is wet, their bodies are clammy and their skin is hot! They both must have dangerously high fevers!”
Stripping them down to their diapers, and turning window fans on high, he calmly said,
“Honey. So is mine. And I don’t have a fever. Its 90 degrees. Did you not spend your childhood in a 125 year-old house with nothing but an open window and hot breeze for air conditioning?”
Holy crap. I forgot.
I am rethinking my pish-poshy attitude.