Who Gives A Shit: Air Conditioning

It's hot. It's Africa hot (turns out it does get this hot in Brooklyn). We recently received this note from longtime FIPS reader @aeclearwater about her conflict over using an air conditioner:

Ok, it’s hella hot in Park Slope. And I’m trying to get used to it. But being originally from Maine makes me bad at heat, and living in Park Slope makes me puritanically willing to suffer to do the “right thing” for the planet. Never, in my 29 years, had I purchased an air conditioner. For a few reasons: First, I'm made of flesh — not ice — and I will not melt. Second, in winter I like to think back to the discomforts of summer and remember that all the seasons have drawbacks (except fall, which is perfect). And most importantly, third, air conditioners are like kryptonite for environmentalists. Those stores in midtown that are blowing ice cold air out the front door in an attempt to refrigerate 34th street? They might as well be melting glaciers with blow torches. Not only do air conditioners directly heat the area around them with their exhaust, but they are also full of weird chemicals and they consume an ungodly amount of energy (see: your Con Ed bill).

And knowing all of that, having shouted that tirade in my head every time I contemplated getting an air conditioner, the heat finally broke me. Yesterday we installed an air conditioner in our bedroom window. And I'll tell you why: sweaty sheets. Sweaty sheets are only good in the fun moments when you are wrestling around making them sweaty. Ten seconds later, they're horrible. And if the sweat is created without the fun, then they're a million times worse. Two nights ago our apartment was so hot that our bed was like sleeping in a swamp. And I assure you, there was no fun involved. As we were trying to go to sleep, "Good night. I love you…" was followed by "…but I can only touch you with one toe because it’s disgusting in here and I can't tolerate any skin-to-skin contact." So sex was out of the question.

That was the tipping point. One of our junk mail accounts signed up for the free trial of Amazon Prime and we had their cheapest, smallest air conditioner shipped to us overnight. (Overnight shipping! Another way I hated on Mother Earth this week.) I know this loss of environmental cred and moral high ground may force me to move out of the neighborhood, but it was worth every inch of my carbon footprint expansion because LAST NIGHT WE SLEPT. It was comfortable. Not cold, but not sweltering. We only cooled our bedroom, allowing the rest of our top-floor apartment to remain a natural sauna. But the bedroom was all that mattered. It was pure bliss. I fell asleep in seconds. There was no sweat! Just sleep…

Until my guilt got the better of me. Anxiety dream after anxiety dream kept me perpetually near consciousness. At 1:30, a global-warming-fueled ice age descended upon New York and I battled the encroaching permafrost to rescue my loved ones, but couldn’t save them all from hypothermia. At 2:56, a Sandy-like superstorm swept my brownstone out to sea and we had to keep from drowning or freezing in a cold ocean. And at 4:17, I was on a cruise in Alaska, just beginning to believe that I had escaped the guilt, when I had to dive overboard to save a polar bear cub who was on a rapidly melting ice flow and didn’t know how to survive. Poor little thing. I tried to save him.

Do you know what all those dreams have in common (aside from my crushing and unreasonable guilt about ruining the planet)? In every dream, I was COOL! I didn't sweat ONCE! So suck it, imaginary polar bear cub! I’m going to sleep in a cool room. I may toss and turn from weird anxiety dreams, but I’ll stay dry while I think about all the other things I can be doing to save the planet. And by dint of enviro-conscious guilt alone, I think I’ll be allowed to stay in Park Slope.

What about the rest of you out there? Do you blast your window unit without a care, cool off only in the bedroom, or martyr yourself with nothing but fans?