I can’t stand the heat.
I know, I know – I should get out of the kitchen.
Seriously, though, I’m not a big fan of hot weather. Anything over seventy-five degrees and I’m already starting to break a sweat. And if it’s humid, you can subtract about five to ten degrees from that. Being hot and sticky is even worse than just being hot.And that is exactly what summers are like in the wonderful state of Virginia.
I was reminded of this at quarter to five yesterday morning when I went for my morning run. Even at 4:45 AM, it was already seventy-five degrees and saturated with moisture. I got my four laps in, but by the time I was done I was could have doubled for Dr. Horrible’s room mate.
I think part of the reason why heat has such an effect on me is because my core body temperature is above normal. While I was at basic training in the Air Force about ten years ago, my first visit to the infirmary resulted in them taking my temperature twice. Both results came back with my body temp at 99.3 degrees. Even after the second attempt, they were certain that I had a low-grade fever. It took me several tries to convince them that I was perfectly fine. This would continue to happen over the next four years of my military service, and even on occasion afterwards.
But on the plus side, I apparently make an excellent human heater for people who want to cuddle to keep warm. So, I guess I got that going for me.
I believe another reason for my sensitivity to heat has a lot to do with my girth. Once upon a time, back in those same Air Force days that I just referred to, I weighed in at around 145 pounds (you’ll have to fill me in on how many stones that comes out to, Ken, as I have no idea what the conversion is). I don’t seem to recall heat bothering me too much then, though one hundred degree heat in summer in Texas will most likely make anyone grumpy. Or sleepy. Or bashful. Don’t think it will net them a doctorate, however.
Now, over the course of the last ten or so years, I had managed to pack on a couple of pounds. And by couple, I of course mean about one hundred and twenty (seriously – get back to me on that conversion when you get a chance, Ken). Anyone who has read my CHUD blog with regularit– sorry. I can’t finish that sentence without laughing, so I’ll leave it alone. But I did do a CHUD blog once about my weight gain and my desire to emulate the one, large, bearded director who hasn’t managed to eventually direct outside of the comfort zone that put him on the radar.
Where was I?
Oh yes – all of that weight that I had “acquired” to make me cool and hip with the ladies might also have attributed to my inability to tolerate hellfire and damnation levels of heat. Or maybe it was just the fact that the heat levels have reached hellfire and damnation. I’ve never been quite sure on that point.
Either way, I’m certain that the combination of high body temperature and Michelin Man physique have played a hand in why I always feel like a gremlin in a microwave when that fireball in the sky decides it needs to increase its quota of skin cancer victims.
The good news is that I’ve lost a little over thirty pounds over the course of the past year and a half, taking me down from just over 260 pounds to just under 230 (you can take your time and get back to me on the conversions at your leisure, Ken. I realize I’m throwing out a lot of numbers here). I’m hoping that the more I lose weight, the less I’ll feel like a Smithfield ham on a barbecue spit everytime the temperature rises. And maybe I’ll look less like one, too. Of course, there’s still that high body temperature to deal with.
But I think I may have a solution to that as well. I’ll just start measuring my body temperature in centigrade. You know, fool my body into thinking it’s running cooler than it already is. Crazier things have worked. I mean, people always think they’re allowed to go one hundred miles-per-hour in Canada right? I’ll just need someone to do the conversion for me.
Could you take care of that for me also, Ken? Thanks!
Behind every great book adaptation is a forgettable first try. — By Ryan Covey