some like it hot. i do not.

I stared at the thermostat in my apartment:  89 degrees.  Fahrenheit, thank heavens.

But still:  it was 89 degrees, it was 5am, and I was sweating in places I don't like to talk about.

Let's not go there.  Let's focus on how I was sweating on my upper lip, and I don't like sweating on my upper lip unless I'm running.

Before I'd gone to bed the night before, I'd shut all the windows, turned on the air conditioning, and laid down on top of the covers.  Late May had quite suddenly turned into late July {those twists of weather are one of the things I love about the Midwest}, and though I'd made it through the day with no air conditioning, I like to be cool when I'm sleeping.

{Actually, I like to be cool all the time.}

I'd smiled in anticipation about how while I was sleeping, the apartment would cool down to a nice, non-humid 72, and I'd get to have that half-awake, half-asleep moment when you realize you're cold and then without opening your eyes, crawl under the covers.  The word comforter was made for moments like that.

I did not have a moment like that.  Instead, I woke up before my alarm to the realization that if your air conditioning has been running all night and yet it's 89 in your apartment, something is perhaps broken.

What to do with a non-functioning air conditioner?  I did the only thing I know how:  hit Ctrl-Alt-Delete to restart the system.

Seeing as my thermostat is not a PC, that had absolutely no effect.  So I opened all the windows and went to the gym.  I was already sweating on my upper lip, and there's nothing that speedwork and an abs class can't fix when your apartment feels like h-e-double hockey sticks.

{That's actually a pretty apt image:  hell has all the comforts of home, but you are not comfortable there.}

On the way to the gym, I contemplated living in my Honda Civic because the air conditioning was working in there.  Honda never lets you down, but then I remembered that I don't really like sleeping sitting up.

After my workout, I did the only other thing I know how to do when something appliance-y breaks:  I called Tom the Repairman.

“Hi, Tom, this is Kamiah.  You came to fix my furnace last November.”

{Beat.}

“You said I had a loose screw.  In my furnace, I mean.  That's why it was rattling.  Because of the loose screw in the vent.”

{Beat.}

“I'm the girl who installed her own programmable thermostat.”

And then he said, “Oh, you're the Indian girl from Idaho!”

Close enough.  I could clear up his confusion later—later as in when he showed up to fix the air conditioner.  But for that moment, I was  happy to have even the remotest slice of recognition.

That story of later—when Tom the Repairman showed up—is going to have to wait.  This lunch “hour” of mine {really, it's 45 minutes long} is about to run out, and I should get back to my writer-by-day job.

{But I promise the story of later is worth it.  I won't tell you if it has a good or bad ending, but it does include a list of lessons learned.  I think maybe my story is a fable; they always include lessons, right?}