I might need to change the title of my blog.
Summer in the city: it means heat. Sticky, grimy heat. Thick air. Sweat. But air-conditioning. So much air-conditioning. Too. Much. AC.
The AC in stores and corporate buildings and my office is almost too much. My legs reveal blotchy white spots and tiny goosebumps gather on my arms, wispy hairs raised from each one. I need a blanket. Should’ve dressed warmer but who needs pants in 90-degree Times Square? Better to dress in layers.
My black cardigan stretched from an M to a L, its sleeves hanging under my arms like flappy wings or an old woman’s flab. There’s a hole in the middle of the back and a few mini stitches from the first time my sister tried to sew it shut. Nevertheless, it’s black, it’s SFW, and it goes with everything. I’ve gotten use out of it.
But I should retire it soon.
You know why? Because yesterday, when I descended the escalator through the arctic corridor of the Viacom building on Broadway, I evaluated the crowd in Times Square. The sun shone down on them as usual, giving them sun-streaked photos (resulting in multiple retakes). But their hair flew, paper tumbled and women winced as a gust blew through the square.
I pushed through the revolving door (scrounging up the last of my body’s energy), expecting the relief of NYC heat. Shivering, I emerged on the street, but instead of getting wrapped in stuffy, warm air, the wind seeped through my sweater. My sweater, thin from two summers of AC, couldn’t even protect me from this New York change.
Autumn’s begun, and it’s completely new to me.