By some form of warped, interior, illogic, I believe that my refusal to complain about the cold entitles me to whine when it is hot. And it is hot.
My friend Laura asserts that it is “hotter than two hamsters fartin’ in a wool sock.” I do not know how she knows that. I do not want to know. I don’t even want to ponder any possibilities. I take her at her word. It is hot.
As I began to work up a privileged rant, friends intervened to provide perspective. Nancy welcomed me to her former world pointing out that such heat is the norm where she lives (until she moves – and the truck was there today). Lloyd approached the issue in another way. His Facebook post reminded me that, as hot as it may be here in New York:
It is not 120 degrees.
I am not 5700 miles from home.
I am not dressed in a full combat uniform.
I am not carrying a pack weighing 70 pounds or more.
And it is very unlikely that I will encounter a bomb.
Reflecting on Lloyd’s post reminded me that there is more to it than that:
I have shelter.
That shelter has air conditioning. And a fan.
The air conditioning in my apartment and my office works (sorry, Ryan).
I have water – as much water as I need to stay hydrated.
Most subway cars are conditioned. Most times it works. I can find another one if it doesn’t.
Many folks – too many folks – some of them here in New York – do not have all those things. Many folks – too many folks – some of them here in New York – do not have any of those things.
It does nothing about the heat.
But it reminds me of who I am and what I have. And, hopefully, it shapes what I say and what I do.
See you along the Trail.