On a recent trip to Washington (the one known for its cranberries, not its crooks), I noticed an interesting phenomenon. I’m not sure what the phenomenon’s name is, but I’d call it something like climate-centrism. Loosely defined, it’s the irrational belief that the climate where one lives is the most extreme climate in the world.
For instance.
When I arrived in Seattle the temperature was in the low 60s. The sky hung low and gray, completely shrouding Mt. Rainier from view pretty much anywhere you went around the area – even, well, up the roads in Mt. Rainier Park. For four full days, the temperature stayed in the 50s during the day and the 40s at night.
Mind you this was mid-August.
Yet the locals I met made nary a comment about the dreary weather. They bustled about their business, walking dogs, fishing in the Puget Sound and riding lots and lots of motorcycles on wet pavement.
On day five of my trip the sun proved that it does actually show its face in Seattle once in a while. The skies cleared, Mt. Rainier made an hours-long appearance and Wal-mart completely sold out of floor fans. The weathercasters on the news spoke of scorching days and broken temperature records. People came out of their homes in tank tops, blaming George Bush for global warming (okay I only heard one person do this) and generally acting like they might not make it out alive.
It was a whopping 83 degrees outside and one man, quite stricken with climate-centrism, actually asked me, “So does it ever get this hot in Alabama?”
Sigh.
“Never,” I said.
Everywhere I have ever lived has been rife with climate-centrism. In Daphne, Alabama, where I spent several years as a kid, 60-degree weather didn’t mean “time to wash the car” like it did in Syracuse, New York, where I also lived as a kid. In Daphne, at 60 degrees, people had fires roaring in their fireplaces (because after all, it was Christmas…) and their “made for the tundra” socks on. Phoenix, Arizona, was much the same, though probably more dramatic – 70 degrees meant knitted hats and fur-lined boots on all the kiddos. But when I lived in Montana, 70 degrees would prompt the question, “do you think it’s too hot to swim in the river?”
I’ve often asked myself, is our tolerance for certain temperatures biological, or is it perception?
If it were biological, I think I’d certainly like hot, but I don’t. I spent 10 years living in Louisiana and Alabama growing up, then another couple of years in Phoenix in my late teens and early 20s. I’m back in Alabama now and dreaming of fall. All these years I’ve loathed the heat with the intensity of a thousand very hot suns. I exist in t-shirts and shorts 24/7, unless I’m forced to put actual pants on, and then I suffer, because people here like to feel like they’re in a sauna everywhere they go.
You just can’t win indoors. While I’m sitting under the air vent motioning the cool air to fall on me, there are people in the room complaining of being cold. How many times have I heard, “it’s always cold in here”…and then, ahem, wanted to slap someone? It’s especially bad during winter. People here feel they must crank the heat up to 80 when it’s mildly cold outside. Sit inside for five minutes and you’ve got bloodshot eyes.
Risking hypothermia, I’m content to leave the thermostat at 60 degrees. I’m content to do that because I prefer a gas bill under $300. And I also am not afraid to put a jacket on.
This is apparently a foreign concept for many folks. The same people who complain of cold will do so with their jackets, removed promptly after entering the room, hanging on the backs of their chairs.
Saying “They make these things called blankets” apparently has no effect on such folks.
Truth be told, I’d rather be cold. Cold is easier remedied than hot. You can put another layer of clothing on when you’re cold, but when you’re hot, well, there’s only so far you can go.
And sorry, I’m not usually willing to go that far.
Alas. Come, October, come.
