I So Love New York in the Summer

So this humidity isn't too bad. Just a quick run through my hair with my fingers takes care of the sweat that accumulated in the previous 37 seconds.

If it manages to reach my neck, I just do a quick wipe and it is, once again, dry and will most definitely stay so for at least a minute or so. Of course, this depends on what stage of growth my hair is in. If it's a little on the long side (read: thick), it tends to take a little longer to break free from the roots.

And it's not so bad having to douse a t-shirt in the sink full of cold water and place it back on while walking calmly to the fan. And it's not so bad that pouring cold water over my head, neck and face has become an hourly ritual. It's the little things that make a difference. And it's not so bad that, out of the four windows in my room, only one works. It lets sufficient amounts of cool night air through while I sleep. I couldn't ask for anything more. And even the lack of an air conditioner is easy to deal with. It's not that hot up here.Walking up the stairs to my place, one is immediately hit with the humidly soothing warmth emanating from the sunroof thingy on the ceiling. The sliding glass door also helps let in all of that humid air, thus filling my apartment with wall to wall comfort. I love New York in the summer.

And the good thing is I'm sure I lose 3-5 pounds a night as I lay sweating in my sleep. Humid is beauty. Beauty is humid. Fuck that. I'm sittin' here in my bed (because I don't have a desk yet) burning up from not only the lack of air coming through my ONE open window, but also the extreme heat from my laptop. I feel like a dying flower, wilting beneath the heat of Death Valley. (Please wait while I wipe the beads of sweat scaling down my forehead and neck.)

Or maybe I feel like I'm sitting in a sauna wearing sweatpants, a turtleneck, and slippers. Or maybe I feel like I'm standing in front of a life-sized hair dryer blowing on high while bulbous drops of water leak from the ceiling. I sleep topless when I don't have anymore t-shirts to douse. I keep a cup of water next to me (which manages to stay cold for a few seconds) throughout the night so when I wake up feeling as though I'm going through menopause, I can splash some on myself in order to try to go back to sleep without thinking how hot I am.

And when I walk a block down the street, the back of my head gets wet. And the perpetual film of sweat and grime that adorns my face just isn't sexy unless I'm playing basketball. And I'm not playing basketball! And the worst thing of all is that my comforter, which is still sitting on the floor on the other side of my room because I haven't made room for it in my closet yet, is mocking me.

As I feel myself returning to the peaceful serenity of my warm body, I discover that I look forward to yet another day in hotel "kill me now" on Reeve Place where the walls aren't cute anymore and the roof is my new bedroom. Mosquitoes? I don't care. West Nile? Fine. Whatever. Take me. My blood is boiling at temperatures hot enough to melt wax, so the mosquitoes probably wouldn't survive anyway. I'm going out on the roof. It's almost 2 a.m. and I'm going out on the roof. With my pillow.