A Girl...

Summer Dreams

As if hearing it ten times a day and then reading it on my blog weren't bad enough, this morning I explained to Simon, once again, in excruciating, timelined, finger-counting detail, that I have not been warm and conscious at the same time for an entire week. The space heater we bought is just that--a heater of a half-circle space that extends exactly three feet directly in front of the dish, which has no blower. The label reads "It directs heat where you want it--at you! So you don't have to warm the whole room!" That should have been my first clue that if I wanted to feel my fingers at all this winter I'd have to find out how to live a fulfilling life within that three-foot half-circle on the floor. If I could just figure out how to attach myself to a spit, then I could also enjoy a warm back 50 percent of the time and maybe wouldn't mind so much if I never breathed fresh air again.

At work we had heat for about three hours on Monday, but since then, nothing. The wind is blowing a frillion freezing miles an hour outside our leaky windows, and I keep looking around for the rest of the witch because I am clearly sitting high atop her icy tit.

"I haven't been warm in a week," I tell Simon.

"I know."

"Between home and work and the ferry ride and Alcatraz and the streets of San Francisco and standing outside at the train station and the AIR CONDITIONING on the traincars, I think the world is coming to an end."

"I know."

"We're all going to die."

"Yes. Of course."

"The only time I'm warm is when I'm in bed under the electric blanket, and most of that time I'm unconscious."

"So what you're saying is that the only time you're happy is when you're in bed with me?"

"I'm saying that the only time I'm happy is when I'm unconscious."

At least that's what I would have said if I wanted to be funny. But this is no laughing matter, so my response was that yes, I am happiest in bed with him (what's new?), and if it were up to me, I would stay there until spring, or maybe longer if we could arrange bedside pizza delivery.

But tomorrow we are flying to Mexico. Tomorrow it will be 89 degrees (32 Celsius, Canadian dears). Tomorrow I will hop off a plane, kiss the warm Puerto Vallartan tarmack, and take off all my clothes right there to reveal the swimsuit (and blinding white flesh) underneath. For the next five days, I will not wear socks. For the next five days, I will not consider putting an ad online offering "Will Clean Toilets with Perosonal Toothbrush for Heat." For the next five days, I will not make Simon want to put tape over my mouth and shove me in a closet. For the next five days I will not wallow in dissatisfaction over an inaccessible future in which there is heat in every room, a dishwasher in the kitchen, a washer and dryer in the finished basement, and a baby in the nursery sleeping peacefully while I eat bonbons and surf the web for Christmas gifts for the gardener and the cleaning lady and the personal trainer. For the next five days, I will focus on being present, and in the presence of friends, fruity cocktails, and the blazing yellow tropical sun.

I just got off the phone with Simon, and we've decided that for the next five days I might have to change my name to Zachary, you know, to go with all the daiquiries. (I will not spell it Zaiquiri, though.) I have to say that's a much better option than Bricicle the Human Icicle or, say, Hypothermia.

[Photos are of the "sand ladder" Simon scaled in the last leg (pun intended) of this triathlon. He is my hero.]

Posted by Leah at November 29, 2006 09:07 AM