|
|
|
- I am drinking iced americanos this summer. With room. I've never gotten iced coffees before this because I like hot drinks in the mornings because I imagine they make my stomach feel fuller. And a few years ago I went black (in my americanos - I've never added any to brew) after someone told me cutting out cream lowers cholesterol. (Why? I thought dairy fat was supposed to be good for you.) I don't give a flying crap about cholesterol but my number was creeping upward and I just wanted to see. And it worked. Anyway, this summer, like some kind of fancy goddamn self-involved yuppie, for no reason at all, I've been drinking iced americanos, adding half and half to swirl around and make it look like a springtime mud puddle. No one cares about this but it's a moment in time that I can capture by writing about it. I imagine my biographer will start the chapter about this summer by writing something about my drink of choice, to add a little human interest and color to an otherwise tedious and pointless biography. I set the new thermostat at work before my co-worker could get to it, and now the A/C comes on at 77. She would have had it at 70 or something arctic like that. 77 is enough to make it respectable, make it clear that we have A/C, but not so cold that I have to wear a sweater. A couple years ago I read an article about how office air conditioning is intended to make men in suits more comfortable. We ain't no men here, and we don't wear suits. Also, I cannot pretend to not know that a byproduct of air conditioning is hot air, and if every single asshole on the planet is using an air conditioner so they don't get sweaty, then we've got billions of air conditioners pumping hot air out into the already-hot air, only making it hotter. It's a cycle of idiocy and gluttony that I don't want to participate in. So 77. But even 77 is enough to make me need to go outside a couple times into the hot smoky sunshine to warm up my hands and arms. Especially if I'm still drinking my iced americano. ... Thursday is the worst. I miss the puppy's roommate more than I'm willing to admit. Friday is better, and by Saturday I'm okay and maybe could even do without him for another day or two or whatever and who even cares. But on Thursdays I just don't know what to do with myself and I'm sad - it's embarrassing, but it's true.
|