In the scientific community, room temperature is assumed to be 73.4 degrees Fahrenheit. If I had to live my life at 73.4 degrees Fahrenheit, I would be a puddle.
The world is made up of people who are either always hot or always cold. And there can be no argument that those of us who are always hot, who live in perpetual sweaty unhappiness, have it much, much worse than our cold-blooded friends.
Those who are cold can always add an extra layer of clothing, or two, until sufficiently warm. You might look a bit odd walking around your office in July wearing a wool hat and scarf, but you will be toasty and happy. When I feel my body heat begin to spike in public places, there are moral and ethical reasons, not to mention legal and aesthetic considerations, that prohibit me from just shedding my clothes.
To truly experience life as a heat-hater, try taking a stroll through Manhattan in my sweaty shoes on a summer day.
“It’s 82 and sunny, a beautiful afternoon in Central Park,” the TV blares before you leave the house. “Oh, OK, not too bad,” you think.
But I’m not dilly-dallying through commodious Central Park on my way to a picnic. Like most worker bees, I’m trekking the real streets of the city — fighting the elements and battling other pedestrians for sidewalk position. It’s a workout, but I’m not in gym clothes. And while there may be a breeze in Central Park or on Orchard Beach, the concrete jungle swelters with hot, stale humidity.
Now put yourself in the middle of a crosswalk that has been pared to a mere 18 inches by all the moronic drivers who tried to beat the yellow light and only succeeded in slamming their cars into my walk space.
To truly experience life as a heat-hater, try taking a stroll through Manhattan in my sweaty shoes on a summer day.
There are 50 people filing through this tiny crosswalk crevice now, practically walking on top of each other and chafing against the 250-degree hoods of the offending vehicles.
You think it’s still 82 in that crosswalk?
OK, congratulations, you made it to the other side — now you have to walk past at least one or two guys grilling gyros or cooking up chicken and rice. Or maybe it’s the guy roasting nuts. Who eats roasted nuts on the street? Nobody. Not even tourists. So why does that guy insist on roasting his nuts, in the street, in the blazing hot summer and making me smell like peanuts for the rest of the day? And does shish-kebab really require open flame and smoke that fills an entire city block?
Still think it’s 82 and beautiful? The exhaust will take care of that. You know what I’m talking about, like when you’re waiting to cross the street and the Mister Softee truck parked in the crosswalk blows hot, monoxide-filled air at you.
Or my personal fave, the subway grates that emit a uniquely pungent bouquet that smacks you in the face at about 125 degrees. Yeah, that’s the stuff.
Eighty-two and beautiful? My armpit.
The reality is that less than two hours after emerging from a shower clean as a whistle, I’m a sweaty mess. It’s not right. It’s not fair.
You cold people will never know just how good you have it.