I (Surprisingly) Didn’t Cause the Heat Wave
Last week was an unprecedented week in NYC. And no, I’m not referring to the fact that I ran into a college crush while walking around a bar with a large metal bowl on my head (my tendency to turn every bar decoration into a fashion statement is starting to have a negative impact on my life). No it was a record-breaking heat wave that not only encouraged me to forgo sleeved shirts for the week, but also encouraged everyone in NYC to really try hard to work in “it’s hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk” into every single conversation. And despite hearing that 97 times in the past week, I did not see ONE fried egg on the sidewalk. All talk NYC, all talk.
But it was incredibly, insanely, mind-blowingly, record-breaking, other-hyphenated-words hot. The second I walked outside I was drenched in sweat — which Cosmo tells me is extremely unattractive to potential male suitors. So I walked to work each morning with my arms alternating between being straight out or flapping at my sides. It was an easy way to minimize the damage and keep my deodorant usage as low as possible. However, people walking by me wrongly assumed I was attempting to land a plane on 5th avenue (or that I was in the last stages of a heat stroke).
And boy did I come close to having a heat stroke. I’m really big into exaggerating things. Like instead of telling people I have heartburn, I tell them to call 911 because I’m having a heart attack. Instead of saying I’m upset about a boy, I carve his name into my arm, take a photo, and tag him on Facebook. So naturally instead of just whining that I was really hot, I spent the entire week making everyone uncomfortable by groaning loudly and rubbing pieces of ice all about my body — in my apartment, in my office, and in the grocery store deli line.
Figuring out how to balance ice in my “cleavage” wasn’t my only issue all week. I also had to pick out clothing that wouldn’t make me feel like I was on fire. So that ruled out my signature black turtleneck collection, my favorite corduroy overalls, and my favorite dalmatian-fur coat. Instead I was stuck wearing loose, short, flowy skirts all week and my favorite designer Fruit of the Loom Wife beater. And I wouldn’t be complaining about wearing skirts all week, if it wasn’t for the fact that the slightest breeze or the slightest fast-moving car sends them flying up in the air. And once again, Cosmo does NOT recommend this as a classy way to meet a husband.
And on top of my ice consumption AND skirt-moonings, the A.C broke at work. Which meant that my keyboard was literally melting as I typed. I learned pretty quickly that it’s kinda hard to type coherent sentences when all you can think about is winter, blizzards, snow, icicles, and the temperature of the water the night the Titanic sank. So all my blogs last week ended up being all Eskimo life and polar bears with six packs.
But this week is back to normal summer temperatures. Which means i can go back to wearing shorts without chaffing and order fried egg sandwiches without having to worry where they were made.