Wow. It’s not even June yet and I’m already keeping an average of sweating through two t-shirts per day. Should I go for three or should I just turn my room into a freezer and just chill in it with a parka for the rest of the summer? This is not what I was expecting when I first moved to New York.
As some of you may know, this author is from the South, where, in most cases, it’s sweltering like someone doused you with slightly warmer-than-lukewarm cream of mushroom soup. It feels hotter when it sticks! The sweat glands are a cooling system, my ass. After you’re sweating, it feels like a barrier is formed on your skin to keep out the cool, unless you’re standing in front of an open freezer door inside a QuikTrip until the cashier complains about it. Yeah, I’ve done it and I’ll do it again! 7 Eleven, you’re next.
So why is New York hotter, in my estimation, than Miami in July? Well, one thing I’m going to blame is all the concrete. Everywhere outside of the city has more vegetation that may or may not direct the heat away from us. I don’t know and I’m not going to research that shit right now. It’s not that it’s going to matter as long as I stay my ass in the middle of Queens, where the breeze seems to stop where the bridges hit more concrete.
Another thing I’m going to point blame at (yes, blame) is the scarcity of central air conditioning. See, most of the buildings in this majestic city are old as balls. And, their air conditioning units follow suit. I go to a certain bank around Rockerfeller Center that make me want to hold up the place to buy an decent air conditioning system THEY can use. The scenario of banking shirtless (like I do online…without pants, I might add. It’s a lovely sight) in that branch is a recurring thought and I’m tired of turning in damp deposit slips to the teller. It’s mad embarrassing.
Fuck, it’s hot!
*update* Still hot…
