We haven’t gotten our air conditioners installed yet. It’s a hard world. I sat on the couch this afternoon while Adelaide napped and tried fruitlessly to come up with something to write. I even wrote a complete post. My adoring husband, who likes to build me up, had to break it to me: it was terrible.

I’m blaming the heat.  It takes everything from you.

This has been the second coldest July on record in New York. I loved every minute of it. But then, it’s August now. Here’s the piece I wrote last summer.

Last summer we didn’t buy an air conditioner because I wasn’t convinced we needed it. Levi urged me to drop the notion of finding divinity in meaningless suffering. My clothes sticking to me and beads of sweat forming on my upper lip, I told him that if he wanted one that badly he could go get one.  Thwarted by responsibility, we slept without covering, used ice cubes to cool our faces, and sometimes got so desperate we just sat in front of the open refrigerator.

I’m over all this “we don’t really need it” garbage. Today, it’s supposed to hit 96. I know, it’s hotter where you live, but I’m going to pull the humidity card, mention that we live on the sixth floor, and tell you that I just ate the last three Oreos,all of which were soggy and had melted cream. I’m reminded of The Great Gatsby and F. Scott Fitzgerald’s descriptions of a New York summer day. Daisy and Jordan are laying on a couch, “like silver idols. . . . ‘We can’t move,’ they said together.”

Lethargy doesn’t begin to describe it.

This morning, once I convinced myself that there is life, even in weather like this, I made it downtown and spent a small fortune on air conditioners. Only one has been installed—and now I’m waiting for Levi to get home from work and take care of the big one. The baby is currently napping in the room with the installed air conditioner. I’m in the living room, repeatedly pushing my glasses up the bridge of my sweaty nose, trying, trying, trying to think of something besides the wavy lines I swear I can see two feet in front of me.

I can’t do anything. It’s like Daisy says, “What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon? . . . and the day after that, and the next thirty years?” So I’m forced to sit here, wishing the child would wake up so we could share some of that Haier goodness and cursing Levi for spending the last two years undoing my notion that making my life hard makes me more righteous. Then at least there’d be purpose in my suffering and I could power through it. Maybe even get up and start cleaning.

And all of that, Levi, as a precursor to my apologies that the apartment is still messy and sort of smells bad.

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