06 Aug 2008 › 9:07am
Summertime in the city can sometimes feel like a cruel joke. The heat in New York can be so intense that the two blocks between the subway stop and my building become a frantic sprint through hell. Sometimes I’m in such a panic by the time I get to the front door of my apartment that I can’t find my keys in the bottom of my purse and when I do I can’t make them work and I think I’m going to explode before I can get inside into the sanctuary of cool air blasting from my window unit. The second I’m in, I launch into the emergency cool down process that I’ve perfected over the past month. It involves stripping naked, dashing to the refrigerator and sticking my head into the freezer compartment (total time from front door to ice cube tray pillow, 6 seconds). It’s times like these that I’m glad I don’t have pets (or worse, a live in guyfriend). Anyone or anything forced to bear witness to my graceless, sweaty flailing would suffer psychic scars galore.
