August 8, 2007
So I figure, if my underwear is going to put up with cold water, so should I, and it all starts with my shower. All right, truth be told, I’m not about to crank the nozzle all the way to freezing cold just yet — but I have decided to turn the temperature down to a more lukewarm level.
This is a big deal.
You see, I’ve always loved scalding hot showers. On Treehugger‘s list of How to Green Your Sex Life, they suggest showering together, but that’s really never been an option for me because chances are the other person will consider my optimal shower temperature somewhere between boiling and Oh-dear-lord-I’m-getting-second-degree-burns.
Even in the summer, I may start off with a cooler temperature, but after a few minutes I want to feel that almost painful heat on my head. It’s a little weird, I know, which is why I’ve decided to try and adjust to a more practical and ethically responsible shower temperature. I don’t have an actual thermometer or anything, but I’m going to keep the dial in the middle of the hot-to-cold spectrum, which is at least … well … an inch cooler than normal.
Photo of an icy shower in Stanley Park courtesy of Mark Goodwin on Flickr
May 31, 2007
I can feel it already — this summer is going to be as hot and sticky as a cinnamon bun, thanks in some part to global warming but also because, as of today, I’m switching off the air conditioning.
As some of you may remember, I previously tampered with my thermostat back in March, when I committed to keeping my apartment no warmer than 20 degrees (68 F) during the winter. But as my body has a much higher tolerance for hyperthermia than hypothermia, I figure, heat wave shmeat wave — I’ll be fine with a few fans and some buckets of water.
Plus, the hallways in my building are air-conditioned, so at least a cool breeze will seep in under the door every now and then, and my windows all face north-west, so there isn’t a lot of direct sunlight pouring in all day.
I’m betting this change will be easy enough until late July and August, when there are always those couple weeks that are so scorching you can barely get out of bed without over-heating. You get that permanent layer of sweat and start to feel like a walking, talking lint roller as everything starts sticking to your skin (clothes, cat hair, food crumbs, the grocery list).
It’s all mental, though — I think if I try and accept the heat, be one with Mother Nature and take pleasure in the fact that I’m probably sweating out a lot of toxins or something, it should be fine. I just hope Sophie doesn’t suffer too much in her fur coat.
Comic courtesy of Toothpaste for Dinner
March 5, 2007
Farch, as its name denotes, is not a pretty time of year. It’s the general period between February and March when it’s no longer winter but not quite spring. There’s no blanket of freshly fallen snow, nor are the birds chirping or the trees budding; instead, there’s just grey — grey skies, grey streets, grey slush and grey, grey souls.
One way to get over this mid-season hump is to convince yourself that, as a matter of fact, spring is practically here! How, you ask? Fill your home with tulips and Cadbury Creme Eggs, get a head start on Daylight Savings and turn your clock forward an hour, start training for that 10 km run in May — which is basically, like, tomorrow — and finally, kick off those salt-stained boots, toss that ugly scarf your girlfriend knit you for Christmas and turn down the thermostat!
At least, that’s what I’m doing (the thermostat, I mean… I’m too in love with my salty but so comfortablicious boots). As of today, the temperature in my apartment will be no higher than 20 degrees (that’s 68 F). To some, that may seem like nothing, but when your circulation has been on strike since ’79, it means it doesn’t take much before hands, feet and noses are frozen. But I’m sucking it up, pulling on a sweater and continually reminding myself of the drowning polar bears who thank me.