My people are not a heat-tolerant people. In the heat, even when I am functioning just fine, my face turns beet red and I look like I will stroke out at any minute. JT has inherited this family trait. I don't mean to suggest that we're not durable, because we can work like a government mule in the heat, it's merely that we don't ever manage to be the sort of people who look cool and collected despite the inferno outdoors. Instead, sweat rolls down our face and we look like we've been licking the inferno.
The fact that I did most of my growing up in the Central Valley of California, a place known for summer temps in excess of the 100 degree mark for weeks on end, is therefore somewhat baffling. None of my family really enjoys the heat and I'm not the only one who tolerates it badly. A few years ago, my sister, who makes her home in the Central Valley today, announced that her temperate zone of satisfaction was 68 degrees. I can relate, as anyone who has ever been in my house on a winter day can attest. I set the furnace at 65 during the day and lower it to 58 overnight. Come the summer, the central air is my best friend. If I could, I'd set it at 70. I settle for 75, which is clearly indulgent.
After a cold weekend (so cold, I was forced to turn on the furnace because temps dropped into the 40s over night and T feared frostbite), a heat wave has roared in to my corner of New Jersey this week. And it's not just heat, there is also humidity; the sort that fogs your glasses when you step outside in the early morning. JT and I, never heat-resistant in the first place, have had virtually no time to build up our tolerance and yesterday we like to melt in the heat. We sat in the shade for a lacrosse game and felt wilted for our efforts. After we got home, I came upstairs to find an overheated JT lying in his underwear in his dark bedroom with only an iPad to light a trail. "Don't judge," he ordered me.