It’s 76 degrees in my house.
The air is not moving around.
For you, this might not be such a big deal. For me, it is a calamity.
I hate to be hot, and not only do I hate to be hot, it gives me a terrific headache.
Which reminds me that my uncle Bobby has a motorcycle, and my granny, back before she was in the nursing home, was saying how “It scares me to death that Bobby rides that motor-siccle all over the place.”
I asked her if she was afraid my daddy was going to get one and she said, “No, hon, your daddy likes air conditioning too much to ride on a motor-siccle.”
So at least I come by it honest.
I got home from tennis yesterday and the air was flat and still and the thermostat said it was 76 degrees in here, which, honestly, if it’s 76 degrees outside, I’m liable to freak out and think we’re fixing to have a heat wave.
I called the number for the company I’ve been using for decades and Mikki, because she’s familiar with my conditioned-air hysteria, said she’d get someone out here “by noon tomorrow,” which is today, and that’s fine. I have fans set up all over the place and I’m sitting in the dark so as not to generate even more heat.
When I bought my first house, some little something or other went wrong and I trucked myself up to the Home Depot for the 90th time that week and was trying to explain to the man what the problem was (without even benefit of a phone that could take pictures!) and he looked at me and said, “Honey, don’t you have something like a husband?”
Something like a husband.
No. I have a phone and a checkbook. And I’m not afraid to use either.