“I didn’t move here so that I can be warm,” I say about living in San Francisco. “I want it to be in the 60s all the time.”
When I wake up in the morning, I love the chilled air that seems to nip at my face, causing me to wrap myself tightly into my down blanket. It’s not that I am hiding. It’s the delicious feeling of receding sleep and the cool air brushing across my cheeks. Then I wake up. Yes, there may be a bit of goosebumps. But that’s why I have a New Zealand wool rug in my room to spare my feet with the unpleasant feeling cold hardwood floors. Then I step into slippers and slide into the bathroom. The window in the bathroom must always stay open because the room lacks a fan to air out the humidity of a shower. So the cooler air hits me and I huddle as I pee, brush my teeth, and wash my face.
I stare at myself in the mirror and feel my body warming up.
It’s warming up outside. Here is where I may depart for a job for some early morning meeting or I may slunk back to my desk, lifting open my laptop and drift my fingers over my keyboard. I resist checking Facebook and instead gaze over my email. But perhaps it’s too late, social media has taken over. I am in a flow now, browsing mindlessly and clicking 10 things you didn’t know about your life. And yes, my window is drafty. One of the two windows—the other being the bathroom window—in the apartment that is single pane because it doesn’t face the back or the front. It’s the side windows and the landlord doesn’t care how it looks and the cool air comes in anyway.
But I don’t care. My fingers are happy in the temperature. They do remember the day when the temperature had fallen to the 40s and how it froze there, unable to move, and they begged to be in a cafe. But I hesitated, loving the coolness too much and the comfort of my chair and my room.