I Have A Right To Complain: I Don’t Care If It Is Summertime; It Is Hot
Without relief, I’ve been forced to go to bed extra late and I’m getting up earlier than usual, all because it is too hot to sleep. Just a trip from my bedroom to the kitchen for a cold drink, leaves me drenched in buckets of sweat. I fill my water glass up to the rim with ice cubes, five minutes later, it has all melted and it the water is lukewarm. My poor cat thinks I hate him because I yell at him every time he bogarts the window fan. The heat is making me frisky but heaven strike down the thought of somebody rubbing up against me. My sinuses stay bothering me. So does the Mister Softee truck, which frequency in the neighborhood (more than five times a day) has provided a cutesy ear worm-enchanting soundtrack to my misery. Just yesterday, somebody asked me a question, it was so hot I couldn’t even bare to speak. I just thought my answer and hoped it would telepathically reach them. It did because they left me alone.
I always imagine that those who complain about the people complaining about the heat are probably cozied up some place in some office building with central air; or beachside, soaking up the nice ocean breeze or in some part of the country where 82 is considered “scorching.” I imagine that these complainers are probably sitting behind their computers, gorging on Flaming Hot Cheetos, complaining that it’s too cool in the office. They probably complained to everybody, who had the misfortune of walking past their desk, “don’t you think it is too cold in here?” And when the confused coworkers, who’s actually been outside, shakes their heads no, our complainer is disappointed because their greater scheme of getting the air conditioning turned down has now been thwarted. With no allies, our complainer has no choice but to reach in their oversized bucket bag, pull out a cardigan sweater and drape it over their shoulders. All is better for them. Later in the day, our complainer sheds their cardigan, only briefly, as they walk to their cars. Once inside, they crank up the a/c, put back on their sweaters and steer their vehicles to their air-conditioned homes. Now dressed in an old college sweater, some flannel pants and a headscarf, they get on Facebook or Twitter and make some snide remark about “why do people always complain about the heat in the summer?”
These people are like the 1-percent of the air-world, oblivious to the rest of us caught up in The Heat-Struggle. Folks like the roofers and construction workers; the mailmen; the guy behind the grill who makes your cheesesteaks; the landscaper; the a/c repairmen; utility workers; window washers; the school crossing guards; ditch diggers; The firemen, who in spite of the temperatures have to wear the heavy armor and put out blazing infernos; and the seniors and seriously ill, who are most at risk of heat related deaths. Folks complain about the heat because they are looking for salvation. And a close mouth, don’t get feed. If I could, I would organize a Million Hot-A$$-Ninjas march for them in solidarity. We could march to Washington to hand deliver the message to the president himself that air conditioning is a basic human right. As I sip on this lukewarm water and wipe the beads of sweat, which have begun to form above my eyebrow, I think this is a marvelous idea. Burt maybe in the winter though, when it is not so hot.