With recent slimy, sticky and disgusting heat and humidity I and the rest of New York City have had to deal with, I’ve discovered a new quirk of mine. Humidity gives me nightmares. For the past three nights, I’ve tossed, turned, awoke with a start and have been all around miserable, going about the day feeling like I’ve not slept at all.

I live with an air conditioner, but I don’t use it. Coming from Vermont, I was raised with the belief that air conditioning was for sissies and out-of-towners. I realize that since having relocated to New York City, this position has become a shade retarded, but I stick with it for some reason, even though living without it is more than a little bit of an ordeal. I have never lived in an air conditioned home and part of me wants to keep it that way. However, there’s not much to envy in a home life punctuated with clogged pores, an ability to stick to any surface and a propensity for blind, spastic bitchiness.

Normally, liberal applications of cold showers and alcohol keep my spirits level, but with this new addition of nightmares, I’m considering breaking my oath to shun canned air. I’m a slightly sticky and morose walking zombie. Perhaps it’s time to plug the damn thing in.