I’m a cold air junkie. I left my window fan up and on until mid November, I usually sleep in t-shirts no matter what time of year it is, and I wake up with all my blankets on the floor more often than snug in my wee little bed. In the Mtastic Harlem apartment, we controlled the heat and usually switched it on when we came home and off right before we got to bed. Since we were on the first floor, this led to some chilly floors in the morning, but the upside was that whenever we got home there was no sweaty peeling-off-layers phase in which we tried to acclimate from bundled-up-walking-fast heatedness to indoor-stifling-dry heatedness.
My Brooklyn apartment building is charming and old and a little creaky and ZOMG so hot. The steam radiator in the corner is turned off, blocked as much as safely possible, and my window is wide open…and yet somehow it’s still so hot I had to put my fan back on. And the power of the heat is such that I can’t even /feel/ the flow of cold air that I’m assured by NPR is outside right now.
DO. NOT. WANT. I could probably fry an egg on my floor. If I just set up like, a hot plate and got some butter and salt. I could leave it on low, though.
This week I’ve been in every borough except Staten Island, which has been kind of cool. Back to the Bronx today for Do Gooder training. It’s supposed to be freezing and blustery outside, which leads me to plan on leggings and undershirts and cap and hood…but the idea of putting all that on makes me break out in a sweat. From all the HEAT. Plus we’re spending the day in a CUNY college facility where I’m betting they won’t let me prop open a window and flap my coat wings like a deranged heat-hating bat.
Water bottle: Check. Light layers under heavy layers: Check. Chip on shoulder: Postponed due to holidays.