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.