Connecticut is currently in the grip of another heat wave, and many responsible columnists will use their newspaper space to outline the critical actions we should take to avoid the associated dangers. Unfortunately, I’m neither responsible nor energetic enough to Google anything right now — instead, I’m dressed only in my boxers, sucking on a Popsicle and huddled nervously in front of my air conditioner. It’s making death rattle sounds and blowing warm air; if it goes, I’m packing a pillow and a toothbrush before settling in at the nearest Costco to wait this out.
In my younger and more ignorant years, I hated heat waves. They ruined camping trips and killed grandmothers all over the country (we watched a lot of Fox News when it first came out). We’d wake up so drenched in sweat that we didn’t make our beds for several hours so our mattresses could dry out first. My dad didn’t believe in air conditioning — I’m pretty sure he was worried it would steal our souls. He waited until he retired and moved to Florida to buy central air (Floridians have no souls).