Listen, I’m not here to tell you that the luxuries of modern day America make us soft, pliable meatbags just asking for and alien takeover… But when it’s 62 degrees accompanied by the sweet sound of light rain drops I don’t think I need to listen to the ‘soft’ hum of the air conditioner all night.
62 degrees in June seems like awfully nice sleeping weather.
I’d break this down for you in Celsius, but I went to a Midwestern public school. Just like Gluttony and Envy, centigrade stands as a deadly sin.
I should clarify. Our A/C unit is about as soft as soft as a demolition derby on Independence Day Weekend. Because I reside in a beautiful brownstone apartment in South Boston, I don’t have access to the modern amenities like central air conditioning. The lease forbids window A/C because we can’t chance killing a millennial walking their golden doodle while they are ‘working from home’ one windy Tuesday afternoon.
So we’re left with a deal with the Amazon devil and a bit more credit card debt disguised as a ‘portable air conditioner.’ Window fans you ask? We refuse to resort to using window fans like animals… So my cohabitant insists on the A/C to sleep. It’s a battle lost before I knew we had waged war.
Out of protest, I’m sticking it out on the couch for now. I just think that 91% humidity probably bothered the manliest of men, once upon a time.