So I just got back from a vacation in the California desert–an odd destination to be sure, seeing as how I’m really not a hot weather person, and generally try to escape hot and humid NYC in the summer for cooler and more comfortable climates. You know, Alaska, Nova Scotia, Scandinavia… These are some of my recent destinations of choice.

So imagine my delight when I realized that, compared to what it was like here last week, my jaunt out to where it was 115 degrees in the shade every day really was a terrific escape. After all, out there it’s a “dry heat.” (Couldn’t you just slap people when they say that??? I mean, a hundred and fifteen degrees is a hundred and fifteen fucking degrees, people. Crap.) But seriously, we had a pool, we had blasting A/C, we had cool mist and cold drinks and sunblock and a nice little rental car and no subways to be on–nowhere at all to be, actually. So nice. That’s when I realized that our lifestyle here in this fair city intensifies the heat by immeasurable degrees.

And when we touched down at JFK yesterday? Cloudy, breezy, low humidity, and 75 degrees. Gorgeous. Aw, thanks NYC! I missed you, too!