Friday - April 27, 2007
Heated.
To Cursive's "Into the Fold," my hot days begin.
The building airconditioning strains to fend off the inevitable slide into sweat
and irritability. I see women surreptitiously slide their fingers underneath bra
straps, hoping for a breeze to relieve reddened skin. The heat is relentless, a
predator hunting down whatever cool is left in shadows, behind pillars, beneath
awnings.
I have taken to dresses. This has been an occasion for comment. Officemates assume I have a date (no) or a client presentation (not always). In my entire life I have not owned so many dresses at one time. This year's sack dress is almost tempting, but I have not sacrificed all those desserts only to conceal the results. I do like dresses with a little shape. What I don't get is leggings. Truly. I think leggings are sweat magnets. Leggings under dresses - so much for cooling breezes.
My MacBook Pro remains warm even when it's sleeping. Imagine that pressed against your back, heat soaking through the ripstop nylon of your backpack, while you stand under the sun waiting for a taxi. My P990i insists on self-destruction, flagrantly wasting its battery life across a measly two hours or less, radiating heat near its charging slot. My machines are explosions waiting to happen.
My temper flared today, the result of a customer service fiasco on the part of a telecom (dis)service provider.
Where are those melting icebergs when I need them?
I have taken to dresses. This has been an occasion for comment. Officemates assume I have a date (no) or a client presentation (not always). In my entire life I have not owned so many dresses at one time. This year's sack dress is almost tempting, but I have not sacrificed all those desserts only to conceal the results. I do like dresses with a little shape. What I don't get is leggings. Truly. I think leggings are sweat magnets. Leggings under dresses - so much for cooling breezes.
My MacBook Pro remains warm even when it's sleeping. Imagine that pressed against your back, heat soaking through the ripstop nylon of your backpack, while you stand under the sun waiting for a taxi. My P990i insists on self-destruction, flagrantly wasting its battery life across a measly two hours or less, radiating heat near its charging slot. My machines are explosions waiting to happen.
My temper flared today, the result of a customer service fiasco on the part of a telecom (dis)service provider.
Where are those melting icebergs when I need them?