The statute of limitations on this post has expired!
Note the date: This post was originally published in 2003 and is kept here largely for archival purposes. Anything older than three years may contain ideas and opinions for which such a gap of time has likely reshaped, altered, softened, re-jigged, or otherwise changed those ideas and opinions to a state incongruent with my current existence.
The temperature is soaring near 31 degrees Celsius, and I’m quietly wondering how I’m going to survive a week in Mexico. I’m usually a “cold” person — and here, avoid any snide comments you might have about my personality, compassion, or other aspects of my being in general — meaning that, simply, I usually prefer cooler weather. Give me a nice spring day with fifteen degree weather and I’m as happy as a duck in a puddle.
So, back to the temperature thing. It’s a hot day in Vancouver. Hot for Vancouver. Hey, it’s hot for this country.
My brain was telling me to park myself in the shade or to go find an air-conditioned building with magazines that you can read without buying (as opposed to the habit of buying without reading, that a lot of people tend to do, I think…) I was being solicited by my inner-self to find some place cool — chilled — refrigerated to tuck into and wait out the burn.
Instead, I rolled up my sleeves and walked in the scorching heat down to Granville Island, the naked sun rolling across my polyester shirt, drizzling like french fry oil down the back of my pants, and soaking me in unforgiving sweat. Now, that was smart, wasn’t it? The very least I could have done would have been to buy a slurpee: but then, that would have been smart too, no?
You would have thought the pain would stop there, right? Again, no. Wandering onto the island I was tortured and taunted by children, some selling lemonade by the sidewalk (and I without change) others running freely through the island’s outdoor waterpark, soaking in the refreshing sprays. I was in my work clothes. I was hot and tired. I should have taken the day off and joined them.
Now, one big exhausting lap around the city later, I’m finally resting in my relatively cool office, waiting out the hours until I can stumble home inside a bus that is ten degrees warmer than the ambient outside temperature and packed to the rafters with my sweaty overworked peers, and, stumbling home across a blistering parking lot, climb up to my too warm apartment so that I can (probably) stand over the stove to cook dinner.
I think a cold shower is in order — and not the kind you’re thinking.