How quickly the body adjusts to 90 degrees.
I am sitting at my kitchen table, trying to create a final
test for the novel we are reading in class.
I am wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt. (I know. Sexy, right?) I suddenly realize that my bare feet are
frozen solid like ice blocks, but I am too lazy to go upstairs and grab a pair
of socks.
I do what any slightly off-kilter person would do: I plug in the electric heater and crank it
high.
It's probably the New England version of whatever madness
ails the Floridians and prevents them from going to the beach if it's under 78
degrees. I believe up north here it's
officially called "Wish-it-were-summer-itis." (In Florida it's called "Wussification
Syndrome.") Whatever it is called,
I apparently have caught it big time because I am completely and totally
beach-ready without a free day to get there.
Come on, Summer. I
know you can do it! I am so ready that even
my feet are telling me it's time.
