I am ever so slightly turning into my aunt, who would leave the heat turned low on even the most frigid of days. It’s not about saving money (though, with the Philly gas price hike, it should be) so much as it is about human endurance.
I can endure my house at 57 degrees in a light jacket and jeans and stay quite comfortable. Is my quality of life going to rise commeasurately with the temperature if i eek it up a mere 10 degrees to 67? Or, if i plunge myself into debt to attain a summery 70 or 71? Will i have acheived a perfect state of bliss if i can wonder around in shorts, eating ice cream without threatening to shiver myself off of the sofa?
Today Elise’s step-sister came through Philadelphia with a college friend from Oregon. The two of them snatched me up on my street as i arrived home from work, before i could get my key in the door. We did a sort of remedial tour of Philadelphia landmarks under Broad street, which included a trip to the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall.
I was hesitant to join them at first, being the jaded Philadelphia lifer that I am, but there was something special about being in those places so nearly empty – without the school kids that usually pack them full. Somehow it seemed more real to walk inside from the cold to these empty, echoing rooms wondering which of our founding fires got to sit the closest to the fireplace. Because, if the day was cold, the Continental Congress certainly would be – there’s not too much to those walls.
That thought sustained my negligence of our heater through the evening, but it hasn’t carried me through to fitful sleep. Our bedroom, an addition to the house, hangs precipitously over our back door, my side of the bed exposed to the bitter elements on five sides. Even at my most endurant iron-man moment my resolve to avoid using our heat evaporates upon entry into the bedroom – especially without Elise and her heating pad to huddle up against to osmose some warmth.
It is wooshing now, up from the basement and through snaking ducts, making its way into the frigid bedroom in a futile attempt to ward off the cold surrounding our bed from almost every side. Not futile because it won’t get warm, mind you, but futile because i am much more likely to fall asleep on the couch while watching a movie than to wait until the bedroom gets warm before going to sleep.
I’m sure Ben Franklin had much heavier pajamas than me, anyhow.
Okay. I have now given him the tour of our house, eaten dinner, and had three more drinks.
I think i have identified the perfect drink-to-Elise’s-ex ratio, because we’re having a more charming conversation between the two of us than Elise is having with either of us.
Well, not right now, but a minute ago, when i was in the kitchen.
We shared a moment. Actually, several consecutive moments. Like, a naughty daisy chain of moments. See, first he was talking about Golden Girls, which is one of my favorite television shows ever. So, we’re in the kitchen enthusing about our favorite GG moment’s and he says “Bea Arthur” and I off-handedly remark to Elise “of course, now i’m singing that song in my head,” meaning Rufus Wainwright’s “California” where he belts out “and my new grandma Bea ArTHUR!” And, he was like, “oh, yeah, i know that song. I love that album.” And, THEN, we simultaneously launch into Rufus Wainwright concert stories in which we cry for the majority of his set.
I mean, what are the chances of two guys who like Rufus independent of a girlfriend’s influence and who are straight (mostly) (i think).
So, yeah, i think as long as i keep drinking and he keeps liking Rufus Wainwright i won’t even be freaked out by the fact that he’s sleeping in my house.
It is t-minus something to Attack of the Well-Mannered Ex part deux. He is in a cab somewhere, trying to find our tiny street.
As a precautionary measure, i have already begun to drink.
My only ex being not exactly a house-guest caliber person (for fear she would steal or break things, or try to sleep with one or both of us), i really don’t have any exes to bring into the have-over-for-dinner equation. So, the concept of an ex i’d not only allow into my home, but be happy to see and want Elise to get along smashingly with is entirely outside of my grasp.
Inching towards the four-year mark of our relationship i can’t say that i’m jealous, but…
Oh, here he is. shit shit shit, he’s coming into my room. minimize blogger. must not be passive-aggressive in front of company.
With Hemmingway on my lap i began to shed layers acquired since the night before.
Raining all week, people at work began claiming that they were depressed. I think rain just gives you time to realize why you might have been depressed in the first place. Having that generally figured out, i quite like the rain.
I peeled off my sweatshirt and stuffed it down into my bag to cover the bottle of vodka, still undrunk. I carry a grand’s worth of electronics on my body almost every day, but i am scared that someone might want to knock me down when i get off the train so they can take my vodka.
It is good vodka.
On Market everything is too beautiful. The bums, even. I draw deep, diaphramatic, atheletic breaths. These are not breaths i take on a daily basis. Forgetting the vodka, i feel drunk on crisp autumn air. Drunk on oxygen.
Ross asked me as i was leaving, “You’ve got to find something to do outside, huh?” I answered that i don’t know how to do anything outside, except walk.
So i walked home.