Heatwave

Staring at the weather map on the national news is like staring at a poorly-done paint-by-number. The entire country is red and orange, with the notable exception of San Francisco. San Francisco is the sole green dot on the map of the continental U.S.

Which makes what I'm about to say seem really wrong.

Today I bought a fan. In our top-floor apartment, with no air-conditioning, the 80 degree heat seems suddenly unbearable. As a native Southerner, I can only feel ashamed of myself. I have survived heat in the three-digit range. I've survived humidity in the ninetieth percentile! Have I gone soft? What is wrong with me? Only a year ago I was residing for a summer in a stuffy, awful 1970s apartment in Missouri. And here I sit, in one of the most temperate cities in the United States, wearing underwear and a T-shirt, sitting in front of a fan at 10:15 at night.

For the first six months of my life here, I absolutely LIVED in wool sweaters, sitting in front of the television with a blanket pulled up around my ears. I was freezing. I turned on the heat in August. I wore my fuzzy blue slippers (a gift from Malia) with socks underneath them, and I still could not feel my toes. I purchased a winter coat last September and wore it nonstop until February.

Suddenly, around February 1, I acclimated to the San Francisco 59 degrees. 65 feels really warm these days. 70 is hot. 75 is stifling. And 80? Well, at 80 I bought a fan.