Now that June has invaded April (just as April invaded February) we arrive at the dilemma that will continue to plague our society for generations to come — air conditioning vs. open windows.
Some of you weirdos keep your windows open all year round. That’s just odd. Why suffer like you’re living in Atlanta circa 1832?
Truth be told, I can’t really complain about your terrible decisions. More AC energy for me!
See, I’m an air-conditioning-as-soon-as-it-reaches-gross kind of guy. “Gross” is obviously subjective, but in my opinion it starts sometime in early March, peaks from April until August and then wanes through September. “Gross” is a long part of my year. “Gross” constitutes 50 percent of my time.
My wife, on the other hand, is a windows-open kind of gal. I knew this going in, but I was blinded by love. I thought I could change her. That was a miscalculation. In fact, I think it’s getting worse. She doesn’t admit it’s gross until mid-August.
Here’s what repulses me about opening the windows this time of year. No, it isn’t so much the early stages of humidity and the rising angle of the sun. I can live with those perturbations, though I do hate both of those things.
Mainly, it’s the pollen. As soon as I open a window, the pollen-spores shoot into my nose like surface-to-air missiles, or is it air-to-surface missiles? Anyway, they attack. I am besieged.
I simply cannot persuade my wife to turn on the air conditioning in April. Not even a doctor’s note will suffice. I’ve learned over the years that she needs about five weeks of what I like to call “AC Preparation Time.” It greatly reduces the ramifications.
The conversation goes something like this:
Me: This is killing me, my dear wife. Shall we turn on the AC?
Wife: I’m comfortable!
Me: I’ve sneezed 3,297 times in the past 14 minutes. AC time?
Wife: Still comfortable.
Me: OMG! I’m freaking dying! Time for the air conditioning, my amazing wife?
Wife: I think it feels nice!
Kids: Hey mom, where’s dad?
Wife: He’s sleeping in his car with the AC on.
Me: Please, lovely wife. For all that is good and fulfilling in this world, please let me have cold air!
Wife: Fine. But set it at 76 degrees.
I take 76 degrees and dance a jig as I scamper to each room and slam shut the windows, mocking the pollen that can no longer victimize my nasal pathways. My teary eyes suddenly clear up; my coughing subsides. I’m under house arrest for the next six months and could not be happier about it. I don’t really like leaving my house anyway. Conversing with people is such strenuous work.
Now, the real countdown begins. Come on, autumn.