I’d call this a great weekend, on paper. Days with Mele, visited a great new church, watched a ton of Twin Peaks, and got my elliptical machine (shut up) delivered.
Except here, at the end, I realize I am miserable. My apartment’s window-mounted AC is barely cooling the place, but it seems like the North Oh My Gosh Pole compared to the bedroom, which is walled off by a cat-barricading door. The bedroom is like some kind of fever dream you get while you’re already in the desert.
A note about heat: It and I are sworn enemies. I am eerily capable of withstanding all kinds of discomfort, exertion, boredom, and dietary excess without much more than a low whine, but high heat is the end of the end for Doug. Partially, it’s tied to some sort of psychological need for percieved cleanliness: Sweat is some kind of disease that, in a perfect world, would be dealt with by medical professionals and an arsenal of sharp instruments and scary-sounding drugs. Acquiring it while exercising is fine, but one shouldn’t start a small collection just walking to the kitchen, much less lying face-down on a bed trying to slow the heartrate enough to lower body temperature until Greenland’s glacier melt disrupts the Earth’s water flow and causes that neat new mini-Ice Age.
I don’t want to eat, to sleep, to watch TV, to do laundry, or to be within three feet of any mammal. Ugh.
It’s worth noting, though, that eight hours ago, Mele was reading me Craigslist items relatng to ACs, and I was saying “No, really, I’ll be fine!” in some kind of self-destructive attempt at independence/masculinity. No, don’t solve my problems: Just listen to me complain!
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