It's that time of year again here in New England when it's as cold as death in the mornings and then boiling hot like Satan's doorway by the afternoon. We start our morning commutes with the heat in the car on full blast and end our afternoon commutes with the air conditioning in the car on full blast.
Normally, this behavior doesn't bother us except that this means summer is truly coming to an end. It also means that even if the pools stay open, we really can't swim in them anymore because the overnight temps are enough to cool the water to unbearable levels. It doesn't matter if it's ninety degrees out (like it will be this weekend) if the pool is at seventy-three. No one really wants to go to the local ER for water-borne hypothermia.
Friday night I find myself coming home from the first week back in school and surprisingly not as exhausted as I expected for a Friday -- except that the exhaustion hit Thursday, instead. So, Friday night I come home, open a can of something illegal to anyone who isn't twenty-one, and sit on the porch. Once the mosquitoes start attacking, I move inside to the living room. I feel a little chill as the thermometer drops twenty-plus degrees in a matter of two hours, but I am also enjoying the fresh air.
What to do, what to do?
I decide to pretend I am outside camping. I set up one of my beach chairs and turn on the gas fireplace. Yes, the windows are still wide open, and yes, I know it's not quite indoor fire weather, but it is now sixty-three degrees outside. That's darn cool enough.
For those of us who drive our cars with the windows open while blasting either the heat or the air conditioner, this behavior is not unusual. I'm a little ashamed, though, that it took me so long to figure this out, and I'm totally grooving to this summer fire concept. After all, if I were outside, I'd be having a firepit.
This is just the inside, smaller-scale version.
