The temp didn't dip like we thought it would last night. Right now, it's 56 degrees, just about ten degrees warmer than everybody predicted, and that's okay. I guess. In truth, I was looking forward to the first two-dog night--in our case, one-cat night, looking forward to a first fresh gift from the great northwest.
Still, 56 degrees is nothing to sneeze at because I'm not sure we've ever run air-conditioning more than we did this summer. It's seemed infernally and eternally hot--and humid. I can spend all day long in a haze of sweat. I walk home--two blocks--and I've got torrents down the back of my neck. I don't think we topped the century mark once, so my son in Oklahoma would have no sympathy, I'm sure; but it's been beastly hot.
And I know--I remember--last winter's beastly cold. I remember snow coming day after day, week after week, and, like some stupid, thoughtless visitor, never even considering what we thought. I remember fat clots of ice forming like miniature glaciers above our gutters. I remember crunching snow beneath my feet, frozen car seats, and tires seeming out of round. I remember festooning the basement water pipes with electric wire to keep the darn things from spouting gushers. I remember being locked up in the house for what seemed forever. I remember praying for warmth--I remember all of that, I swear.
Still, I'm just dying for cool weather and thankful, this morning, for a reprieve.
Fickle old fart.