There is a high whine warning in effect for the foreseeable future.
What the hell, San Francisco? Can we not have, oh, I don't know, a FEW DAYS of mid-seventies instead of going from low-sixties to stupid-nineties?
"Oh, but Stephanie," some of you will say, "This happens only two or three or four or five times a year." Tell that to my apartment. One day of high mercury, and my apartment will hold a heat grudge that will last until we have seven consecutive days of sub-40s. Temps could drop to a nice, reasonable, human level tomorrow and it won't matter. You've already pissed off my apartment, Weather, so thanks for that.
Oh, and not only is it Spare the Air Day, it's also Bike to Work Day. But did you hear? MUNI isn't free? No, no. You have to PAY for the privilege to sit in an unairconditioned metal coffin as it meanders slowly down the Embarcadero getting full-on sunlight, and where the only hope of relief from the stifle is when the doors slide open to waft in sun-saturated air along with even more people who have already sweated through their morning deoderant and who can't grasp that the concept of "personal space" means you do not hang your arm over the back of someone else's seat so that your sweaty arm is persistantly nudging against their sweaty neck!
I will take small comfort in the fact that Mayor Noisome is hopefully still too busy running for governor in Israel and not solving the San Francisco crime problem to worry about his hair gel melting down his face on a staged Bike to Work Day ride.
I'm sitting in the dark of my apartment trying so hard not to move. Even the minor task of typing five fingers across a keyboard, is sending rivulets of sweat coursing down my torso. I'm thisclose to stripping off every last damp article here and now, except that I have to do laundry and I'm afraid that once I take my clothes off I won't be able to get them back on. (I'm also afraid that I'll forget I'm naked and just go about business as usual.)
Lord, but I hate what the heat does to my body. My fingers swell, rendering my wedding bands hateful. My feet engorge, making my once comfortable shoes nasty, evil, biting things that leave mean welts on my upper instep. I hate what the heat does to my brain. I can't think, and everything's cludgy and annoying. I hate what the heat does to my mood. If you hadn't noticed, I'm whiny, crabby, cantankerous, and fairly murderous. I just want to hibernate until winter.
The cold doesn't do this to me. The cold doesn't make me swell or cludge. The cold doesn't cover early blisters with Band-Aids or render the thought of cooking insane. The cold doesn't make me yell at my cats for having fur and for making me hot just by looking at them.
And we can't put in the window AC unit we lugged all the way from Boston because we're way to San Francisimilated now not to feel guilty about it!
Now if you need me, I'll be sitting in the bathtub eating ice cream for dinner.