Living in an apartment built in the ’70s, in a unit facing the dark parking-lot pavement and located directly over both the boiler and the laundry room, isn’t a whole lot of fun by the time mid-August hits. Even with an air conditioner that sounds like a chain-smoking R2-D2, I’m constantly going to the fridge for a frozen beanbag or a Ziploc of ice.
Sunday night was one of about 15 times in my life where thunder was rumbling and lightning was flashing. The poor cats were losing their minds, and the heat gives most a short fuse; on top of that, the entire day had been spent essentially basking in a sweat bath doing long-procrastinated weekend stuff like cleaning out the two hall closets. Now, I don’t know why I thought a near-30-degree day would be ideal for doing this. I was wrong. Oh, and before starting at noon, I had seen fit to go for a five-kilometre jog on an empty stomach. I’m always in a great mood after I exercise… provided I don’t have to actually do anything after—in that case, I’m in a horrible mood after I exercise.
Sunday was a bad day. Nothing was going right. And on top of everything else, I was worrying about COVID-19 cases going up, thinking about what idiots we had all—myself included—been these past few months.
I don’t have a crystal ball, and I hope you can all laugh at how wrong I was, but on Sunday I was sure beyond a doubt that we are about to pay a huge price for not locking ourselves down enough. Strap hunger, exhaustion, heat, and a massive mess in the closets to that and you’ve got Grumpy Adam.
So sometimes, I suppose, the best thing I can do when I’m having a day is have it. Do what’s got to be done regardless and recognize that, in this case, my petulance was my own fault, as it usually is. I hope I can look back and laugh at how wrong I was, too.