Brunswick,
Maine.
Last Saturday of January.
Sunny, lithely approaching 5°C.
The
metric system is good practice for us. It scares most Americans. I will lay it
down here to be simple about it.
Water
freezes. Water boils. Both of these things happen at certain temperatures.
Take
the temperature range between freezing and boiling.
Divide
that space between into 100 pieces—for the sake of this post, they’ll be known
as degrees.
Freezing
is 0°. Boiling is 100°. Consider that 50° (the midpoint, if you will, between boiling and freezing) is scarcely
borne by most humans (it’s 122° Fahrenheit). I’ll “chart” it up to that in increments of
5° for anyone that cares, along with some moralistic proclamation of
little-or-less repute:
0°C 32°F Freezing. Many objects/subjects
are frozen solid, especially objects/subjects that were solid beforehand. Water
turns to ice, which had been water beforehand. This is not right. Nobody can
pretend anymore once freezing occurs; even if you like ice, it must be
acknowledged that you can’t do things without clothes without problems.
5°C 41°F Cold enough to curse yourself and
others, but pretty survivable, if you don’t get wet. Some people are really
into this. They are not right. (This is the temperature threshold for
refrigeration, by the way. Please refrain from carrying anyone over this
threshold.)
10°C 50°F Warm
enough for the people to be jubilant
in winter, yet cool enough for parents on a camping trip to want to hurl
themselves off of elevated surfaces in despair. They’re both right.
15°C 59°F Mild
and pretty merciful. This is also a tropical paradise for people ensconced by
the hostile-indeed elements. Yet it’s not a panacea—if it were accompanied by
precipitation, then it would be most unpleasant. You’d swear it as divine
retribution for some illusory trespass, but bystanders would suggest that you
were wallowing a bit. They would be right.
20°C 68°F “Room
temperature” is a misnomer whose use is sufficiently frequent as to enjoy
near-unanimous recognition in our sad little lives. A room can be any
temperature when a bunch of whateverness is pumped into it. It is not right.
25°C 77°F This
is possibly the only neighborhood of temperatures that can boast having
universality of appeal. No one complains—even in New
England, where that’s kind of their “thing.” Instead, they
complain about the past (it’s over) or the future (it’s endless). Everyone is
right, but everything remains wrong.
30°C 86°F Transcribing these values just
now, I swooned in my idealization of this beatific temperature. On a day of
this temperature, if you really want to do so, you can listen closely for the
unconvincing mutterings/utterances from elderly gadfly types; it is crucial to
remember, however, that they're continuing to live only out of spite. Or you can mutter your own utterance. It's only
right and natural.
35°C 95°F This
satisfies existing thermal criteria for hot.
It does not have to be unpleasant, either—I used to drive a little Geo Metro,
and on days where conditions were thus, I’d get into my car, roll up the
windows (if they’d been opened), start the car, activate the heater at full
intensity, and sit there. That was right before my diagnosis.
40°C 104°F I
have always referred to this as “riot weather,” because unrest is fomented in
all living things, and it can get very nasty. This is a real swelter. I’m not
even enjoying writing to you about it in my blog; I’ve caught myself holding my
breath and tensing my shoulders. It couldn’t possibly be right.
45°C 113°F Does
anybody actually like this kind of
heat? As a species, we can generally handle 40° (104°F) before things go awry
with our bodies. After that, we lose the right to make rational choices, like
the heat has flagrantly usurped Power of Attorney, but worse, because your brain is
cooking inside your head. Basically, by now it behooves us not to think of
ourselves as living creatures per se,
but to adjust our expectations of ourselves and each other.
50°C 122°F Previously
discussed.
