Stagnant air hung hot and heavy around our heads as we squirmed inside metal chairs in an effort to find a modicum of comfort.
“Sorry! Didn’t get the air on soon enough. It’s kinda stuffy in here.” Madame Secretary scuttled back into the main room, taking her chair beside Madame President at the head table.
As we waited for the usual stragglers, a general moan filled the room.
“I had to sit down before I opened my power bill.” Janet sat two chairs away, and spoke as she rifled her purse for her “personal fan”.
“How much was it?” Several of us turned to look at Debra as though to challenge, “Did you really mean to ask that?”, and then swiveled just as quickly in anticipation of the answer.
A general conversation ensued amidst the waving of notebooks and the whir of hand-held air-movers. During a break in the complaining, I spoke.
“I haven’t turned my air on yet.”
Quiet befell the room. Newly arrived stragglers stopped in mid-stride. The clock ticked, and fans whirred over held breaths.
“Really?” Debra composed herself first.
“Yes, really.” I stirred in my chair, uncomfortable under the spotlight.
“Aren’t you hot?” Debra challenged.
“Well, we do have an attic fan…” Unheeded, the words formed an apology.
“Yes, but…” Debra finally failed to find the words.
When I woke this morning, I thought today would be the day. For the first time since I turned the heat off, I didn’t feel the need to add another blanket in the middle of the night. This afternoon, as I greeted the sitter while warding off the advances of my hundred-pound puppy, I marveled at the coolness in the air.
I live in “Hot-Lanta”. It’s the middle of June. And, I haven’t turned on my air yet. The power bill I paid last Friday was the equivalent of a bill I usually receive during the autumn months. I could get used to this…
As economic uncertainty ruled the airwaves, the print media, our over-filled heads, and our war-weary hearts, I made a decision to return to what I knew. I haven’t poured crystallized soap into the soap dispenser of my dishwasher in several months. Every night I bathe stoneware, glassware, and plastics bought in an effort to actually have drinking glasses despite housing a prepubescent boy. I love results oriented tasks, and nothing is more results oriented than wiping the remnants of a spaghetti dinner off my favorite set of dinnerware to reveal the hand-painted artwork underneath.
The clothesline Roger reluctantly strung between two stalwart pines is filled daily. Sheets whip, towels undulate, and blouses dance with pants in summer breezes.
As a comment was made about my decision to live in a house filled with summer breezes, I remembered the first house I lived in. It was small by today’s standards, and encased in red brick. Air-conditioners might have purred in other neighborhoods, but we subsisted on the air God gave us.
And, we did just fine…
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Are We There Yet? 