I moved from Las Vegas to New York years ago, but on days like today, I realize that Sin City still has its hooks in me. And has probably warped me for life.
The mercury is going to hit the nineties today in the Big Apple. 1 That’s hot. A friend of mine said, “Today will be a roaster.”
But the funny thing is, when I first saw the forecast, my initial thought was, “Oh. Ninety degrees. Not bad.”
This is what happens, I suppose, when you used to live somewhere with days up around 110 or 115 degrees.
It’s been years since I’ve lived in Vegas, as I said. Years since I even visited. But there’s still a part of me that judges temperature by Vegas standards.
Here’s how the heat in the desert can mess you up: When I lived in Las Vegas, I would frequently go for a run in 90, 95 degree heat.
Why? Well, because I would look at the temperature and think to myself, Ninety-five? That’s like twenty degrees cooler than yesterday! Time for a run!
And ten minutes later, I’d be gasping for breath, thinking, Why am I dying? And the answer would occur to me: Because it’s &%^ing ninety-five degrees outside, you &%^ing moron!
Beyond the differences the humidity (or lack thereof) causes, it’s the numbers game that messed with my head the most. Because even though I know that it’s going to be miserably hot today, there’s a part of my brain whispering, “C’mon, Barry. It’s only ninety. That’s nothing. You don’t even need to turn on the air conditioning.”
*sigh*
At this point, I’ve been gone from Vegas long enough that I imagine this temperature agnosia will continue to persist. So, to those of you who know me, please forgive me when I seem constantly caught off-guard by how damn hot it is outside.
And now I’m going to go install an air conditioner in my daughter’s room. Because even though my brain refuses to believe it’s going to be noticeably uncomfortable today, I’m pretty sure Child Protective Services would frown on Roast Leia.