Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow

Dear That’s Life,
Has anyone else been praying for snow?

I am not one of those people who complains when a foot of white, powdery goodness falls from the sky and is dumped on my front lawn. Trying to determine why people love summer is therefore a mystery. I can’t take off my skin in an effort to cool down nor do I understand why everyone around me appears to have stopped sweating while I cannot. I have I yet to perfect the best outfit to wear in this weather, the goal being to arrive at my destination looking neat and kempt, not like I have slept in my clothing for days. To put it mildly, this weather makes me very cranky.

As a person who went to Alaska on her honeymoon, wearing boots and shoveling snow makes me happy. For now, with record breaking temperatures, I look longingly at my sweatshirts and visit the tights in my drawer. I check in, say hi, and remind them of the good times we’ve had. Before we know it, I tell them, we will be together again. Then, after applying even more deodorant, I walk out my front door, fully aware that all of my efforts to beat the heat are in vain. My world is an oven.

Insisting on taking mass transit into Manhattan, I arrive at the radio station one LIRR train, two subways and about a ten minute walk later. When simply being underground and sitting on the subway is something looked forward to for some relief, you know it’s hot. The stale air on the platform made the entire underground network of tubes and trains smell like feet. The white cotton shirt I wore did not keep me cool, nor did I look like a mensch by the time I reached street level. Silently vowing to burn my clothes upon my arrival home, I headed towards the station.

Proceeding on my walk, the sign in front of the Emigrant Savings Bank on Grand Street forced me to stop and take notice. It read 113 degrees. I rolled my eyes. Exceeding the predictions I had heard on the news, knowing full well the next day’s forecast was even worse, I took a deep breath and carried on. There was no choice, the show starting in about twenty minutes. I took comfort in knowing the studio is always air-conditioned. Wondering when and if my sweat glands were ever going to shut off or at least slow down, I climbed the stairs to the studio, took my seat, and willed the sweating to stop.

I casually mentioned the read out on the bank’s sign to the others in the studio. “113,” I said again, though I assumed the sign was inaccurate. I was right. “They also think it’s Tuesday,” said someone sitting next to me. I laughed. While I had been tempted to mention that detail on the air, I decided to skip it, moving on to other stories, though the tri-state area heat wave would certainly make the news for days on end. Comments on Facebook included, “Thanks to all those who feel the need to remind me how hot I am” and “At least you don’t have to shovel the hot”. Once the show was over, having already finished all of the water in my bag, I packed my things, heading back the way I came. While I am sure no one would have objected to my taking a cab to Penn Station in this heat, I stuck with my original game plan.

Passing the Emigrant Savings Bank on my way home, the temperature had dropped three degrees according to the inaccurate thermostat. As I got closer to the bank, however, I noticed a NY News 1 reporter and crew standing in front about to film. Next to them stood an older Asian woman. As I got closer and caught their eyes, I shook my head. “That thermostat isn’t accurate,” I said to the reporter. “About an hour ago, it read 113 degrees.” Even before he could respond, I continued with my train of thought. “And besides,” I said with a smile, “they also think it’s Tuesday.”

The Asian woman quickly chimed in, wildly pointing at the sign. It seems I had come just at the right time. “See!” she said, her heavy accent in no way interfering with her tone. “I told you it doesn’t work!”
MLW