Excessive Heat Warning

It's days like these that I fear most. Those summer days where the temperatures soar and the humidity clings to you like like a relentless ex that you want nothing to do with. Days like this make me angry at myself. They truly and honestly bring out the worst sides of me.

I hate the fact that I sweat far more profusely than the average human. I hate that I'm forced to wear dress pants and a button-down shirt to work amidst excessive heat warnings. I hate the metro, the crowds, the pavement, the sun, the shade, the warm disgusting breeze blowing the sweat off my face. Most of all, though, I hate that at any given moment, I can look up or down a street and find one of two things: a girl in a sundress wearing flip-flops and sunglasses looking minimally bothered by the oppressive heat, or a strikingly thin gay man wearing the gay summer uniform - a torn tank top/wife beater combo adorned with a picture of a child actor from the 80's that barely constitutes as clothing and fully exposes both nipples but is still sold for $20-$30 bucks at American Apparel, slightly rolled up and/or frayed jean shorts, and excessively large and colorful high tops that look cheap and worn yet, in reality, cost $400 from an online sale at Barney's.

I get angry at both because I'm in dress clothes and it's unfair. Why can girls show up to work half naked during the summer and I can't? Why do they get to wear open-toed shoes while I'm forced into black socks and ugly loafers that literally taunt me every morning while I dress? Who the hell made these rules? And above all, where the fuck are all these gays going dressed like that? Am I missing out on some type of Tuesday mid-morning rave on U street? New York is even worse. Do the gays even work there? Did they all get the same memo that black leather gladiator sandals is the only acceptable form of footwear within the confines of the 5 Burroughs of New York?

All these questions race through my mind as I look down at my watch and realize that my dress shirt is soaked, my balls have suffocated and retaliated with anger in the form of chaffing, and I'm late for my 9-5 life. There's few things worse in life than sweating completely through one's work clothing and arriving to the office looking as though you've just stepped off a river cruise during a monsoon in the Amazon. My anxiety and levels of discomfort in this type of weather are not unfounded....

A couple of summers ago, I was going through my usual phase of "Fuck this place I'm moving to NYC" mentality. I had applied to numerous jobs when, out of the blue, a small sports advertising company contacted me for an interview. "Finally!", I thought, as I emailed them back confirming a date and time to meet. My plan was to hop the Chinatown bus from DC to NYC on a Thursday evening and spend the night with my friend Candy at her apartment in Long Island City before my 9am Friday interview. Her apartment was conveniently located within walking distance of the place, so I was proud of myself for my quick last minute arrangements. "This'll be easy" I thought to myself. "I'll be there in time for a late dinner with Candy, get some rest and wake up early for my interview and then head back home in the afternoon". Of course, my life as I've learned never goes as planned.

When I arrived to Penn Station on that Thursday evening, I noticed on various flat screen TV's a CNN headline that read "Worst heatwave in over a decade to hit Northeast cities tomorrow". In my mind, I brushed it off thinking that I would just surround myself in air-conditioned spaces for the next 48 hours. No biggie. I hopped on the subway and headed towards Candy's place in LIC to change and head out for a drink and some food. Upon arriving, I walked into her apartment and was met with a blast of heat far more sweltering than the outdoors.

"Holy fuck your apartment is like living in the slums of Mumbai, except without the unlimited supply of cheap curry and human shit on the streets!". Candy's apartment was nice and big, but grotesquely un-airconditioned.

"I know" she laughed. "There's no central AC and I haven't really needed a window unit until now". Great. I had conveniently forgotten that most people in their early 20's living in NYC and supporting themselves have barely any money to eat, much less afford an extravagant luxury such as a window unit. In an effort to escape Satan's lair, I suggested we go to a restaurant and hang out for a few hours.

In my mind, 10:30pm is a reasonable hour to return to an apartment and expect for the interior to not feel as though you're being wedged into an overweight bus driver's crotch. Unfortunately, Candy's apt was still a sweltering 88 degrees inside. I took a cold shower and a shot of vodka and settled into the leather couch in the living room where I would be spending the night. I opened both windows next to the couch in a desperate effort to have some type of cross breeze. I'm not exaggerating when I say this was amongst one of the worst nights of my life. I tossed and turned until about 1 am, at which point I peeled my soaking body off the leather couch and headed towards the kitchen. I opened the freezer and attempted to climb in, but only my head would fit. I then opened the refrigerator to cool down my legs and balls and began to imagine myself as a frozen pork loin basking in the glory of freezer burn. After passing out with my head in the freezer and balls near the milk, I made my way to the sink, turned it on, and furiously splashed water on my face and chest before heading back towards the leather couch.

Following a few more hours of tossing and turning, coupled with the incessant rumbling and shaking of the above ground train running directly next to the living room window, I began to panic. I realized I had only a few more hours of solid rest before my interview, but I was sweating so profusely that I actually considered walking to the nearest hospital and having them admit me for dehydration and heat exhaustion. At least that way I could find some relief. Seeing as how it would be difficult to make an interview successfully wearing nothing but a hospital gown, I began searching for a nearby hotel. In moments like these where I'm so exhausted and uncomfortable, I lose all dignity and would have walked to the nearest Holiday Inn wearing nothing but underwear and a moist towel around my head had I been able to find one. At one point, I honestly feared I would pass out and drown in my own pool of sweat. The NYPD would peel my dead body off the couch the following day, and I would join the small list of senior citizens and mentally handicapped victims on the headline of the NY Times: "Extreme Heat Responsible for Death of 3 elderly, 1 Mentally Disabled child, and 1 Large and Sweaty Giant Pussy of a Man". So I can't handle extreme heat as well as others...I know this and I have accepted it as my fate. Pussy or not.

I finally awoke in a fit of anxiety as the sun beamed onto my face. I looked at the clock on the wall. 7AM. At this point, I knew falling back asleep would be impossible so I stripped off my clothing and headed towards a cold shower, figuring that 2 hours to dress and walk 1/4 mile to the interview would be ample time. Have you ever experienced stepping out of a shower and dressing yourself in formal attire in a blistering hot room? It's a feeling I think everyone should experience at least once in their lives to connect with our ancestors from the previous centuries. Had I lived during their time, I would have gladly enlisted in the military and volunteered myself to be amongst the first line of defense in a deadly battle. If that didn't work, I would forcibly engage in lewd sexual acts with someone riddled with bubonic plague.

As I strolled out the door in my damp suit, I headed towards the Quizno's on the street corner. My plan was to walk 15 feet and then quickly duck into the nearest shop for temporary relief before continuing on. It was 8:15am and the temperature was already creeping towards 100, and if I arrived to the interview early enough I could enjoy a few moments of peace in an air-conditioned lobby. Imagine my disappointment when I arrived a half hour later to find this newly constructed building made entirely of windows and a half finished lobby. With no AC. At this point my anxiety crept up as I knew for certain that my interviewer would take one look at me and think I was a homeless businessman living out of his car and wearing the same filthy suit covered in sweat marks. As I made my way to the 9th floor, I opened the office door and greeted the receptionist.

"Sorry about the heat in here, our AC doesn't seem to be working these past few days."

"Oh no worries, I was accidentally pushed into a sewage pond on the way here so AC is the least of my worries right now" I smiled, as I sat onto an all-too-familiar leather couch. Moments later, the interviewer appeared and led me back to his office which, of course, was also comprised entirely of windows and no blinds. Luckily, he was sweating as incessantly as me as he sat and began the interview. I can't say I remember much of what happened, as I'm fairly certain I may have blacked out at various points during our discussion. Regardless, I left the building and headed quickly back towards Candy's apartment. When I opened the door, I found Candy's roommate sitting in the living room watching TV.

"How can you sit in here it's like 90 degrees?"
"Oh well it's nice out here my room is FREEZING. I slept with the window unit on all night."

Upon noticing the look on my face, she asked "Did you sleep ok out here? I wish you had said something I have an extra air mattress in my room you could have slept on".

Trying my best to not kick the bitch in her ovaries, I gathered my belongings and headed out the door. The thought of taking the subway to midtown and waiting 3 hours for my bus was overwhelming to me. At this point I was so desperate for relief, that I hopped on the internet and booked a flight from JFK-DCA which would depart in 4 hours. Fuck the bus. Happy with my decision, I hopped on the airtrain and got off at the Delta terminal of JFK where I could finally relax in the AC and grab a drink. As I entered the terminal, I was horrified to find large industrial fans scattered strategically throughout the building.

"AC's broken" said the large African American lady at the Delta counter to me. "We got fans."
"Yes, I see that thank you. Um, by any chance can I get on an earlier flight. Sayyyyyy right around....now?"
"That's a hundred dollaz, sir. And it's full."
"Great" I smiled, and walked away.

The next 4 hours passed eternally slow until I heard the sweet and angelic voice of the gate agent announcing the boarding of my flight. I walked down the Jetway fanning myself with my boarding pass yet ecstatic that I would soon enter the notoriously frigid cabin of an airplane. I smiled at the flight attendant and stepped on board where I found row after endless row of overweight passengers violently fanning themselves with barfbags and magazines and desperately reaching towards the air-vents above them. The inside of this cabin was, no exaggeration, a cool 90 degrees. I took my window seat and recalled the scene in that movie "Airplane" where the old lady hangs herself mid-flight. I began to wonder if my seat belt was strong enough to support my body weight. The captain announced that, due to a malfunctioning APU system, there was no AC available on the ground. IS THIS REAL? By now I could say with all confidence that I know what it would have been like to be a prisoner of war in Vietnam or Rosie O'Donnell on an African safari.

As the plane taxied and I went in and out of consciousness, the captain informed us we were number 21 for take-off and would sit on the runway for the next hour or so. Baking. What was supposed to be a 30 min flight suddenly seemed endless. I could have fucking walked home by now. The flight attendants walked through the cabin offering small glasses of water as I grabbed 3 and proceeded to dump each, one by one, on my face. The next thing I can remember is landing in DCA and taking the metro back to my dad's office to catch a ride home. As I opened the door to the car, I threw my belongings in the back and collapsed into the front seat. "Tough day?" my dad asked with a grin on his face, as I looked over and gave him the finger.

This ordeal occured 2 years ago and it haunts me still. Any time I see warnings for "excessive heat" or adjectives such as "Blistering, boiling, sweltering" and any other word that should never be used to describe the weather, I cringe in fear. Since I'm not fortunate enough to have been built with the body of a 15 year old Korean gymnast and cannot appropriately pull-off the summer gay look or a sundress, I'll be declining any invite for an outdoor gathering until mid September. I've noticed more and more rooftop bars and outdoor seating available for happy hours and fine dining and I laugh to myself as I drive by in the comfort of my AC on a hot summer day and notice two gays on a dinner date, in their summer uniforms, inconspicuously dabbing the glisten on their foreheads as their date looks away.