I texted this message to My Darling B last weekend, while I was out riding my bike: “OMG IT IS HOTTER THAN A BURNING HOT THING OUT HERE”
She was not sympathetic. “It’s only 80 degrees. That’s not hot.”
“OH IT IS TOO HOT YOU BIG FIBBER” I answered. I don’t usually text in all caps, but the situation seemed to require it.
“I seem to remember SOMEONE saying 80 degrees is not hot – pleasant even. Huh.”
Yes, it is true I said 80 degrees is not hot. It’s on the warm side of a pleasant summer’s day, but only when the humidity is somewhere south of fifty percent. I don’t believe there’s a jury of my peers who would disagree with me on that, so long as that jury does not include My Darling B.
B and I are at that point in our lives when the days that make us both feel comfortable are rare indeed. In winter, I am always too cold. In summer, she is always too hot. Very occasionally, like maybe six or seven days a year, the temperature will hover around seventy-two and we can both agree that, yes, this is the perfect day. On the other 359-ish days, B is dripping sweat or I’m slowly freezing solid and we are looking at each other like, What Is Wrong With You?
This Is Drivel 