Monday, July 11, 2011
Summer in New York City
Is it a regular occurrence that your armpit sweat actually drips onto other people's shoes?
Have you ever wiped your brow with office supply paper?
Do people ever mistake you for having taken a swim, when really you've walked three blocks down a city street?
If any of these apply, then you, like me, are spending your Summer in New York City.
This year marks my third Summer in the city that never sleeps or breaks in humidity. I missed out last June through August since Summer in San Francisco is grey, rainy, cold, and unsupportive of rompers or other lingerie-inspired attire.
I was sad to miss out last year, because I do like Summer here. It is a great equalizer, as it makes everyone miserable and forces you to embrace that misery. It also forces you to redo your wardrobe entirely. And by "redo your wardrobe" I mean "stop wearing clothes altogether," venturing out into public in the following fabrics only:
As for spending time indoors?
Every Summer, I go through the same thing -- an internal war between taking action and being lazy, which I mistake for my showing strength and perseverance. I'm talking, of course, about waiting until the last possible moment to install my air conditioner. In my early days of subletting in Brooklyn, then living with a Craigslist roommate in Queens, I showed real strength of character, and could get through to August before buckling. Every morning I'd wake in my normal bed turned sweat water bed and think, "You really are something, Fel." This achievement somehow made up for my failure of a love life, professional uncertainties, and fact that I ate most meals from a can.
This year, the dilemma remains, but the circumstances have changed. I am living with my perfect boyfriend, I am happy with where my career is headed, my diet consists only of some canned foods, and -- as far as air conditioning goes -- I'm halfway there. We already have one in the bedroom, old and rickety and asbestos-laden as it is. But our apartment is a long railroad, so the sun-drenched kitchen and living room remain torture chamber versions of saunas where hope and hydration go to die.
But my boyfriend and I have just recently talked, and we've decided it's high time to take the next step.
That's right: we're getting a second air conditioner.
Until then, I'll be the one wearing mesh and sweating on your espadrilles.