Eighty Degrees and Holding
Posted on 03 May 2011
On what was probably a class survey to make a graph, I was asked what my favorite outdoor temperature was. I was maybe eight or nine at the time, and I remember my answer clearly: 80 degrees. Fahrenheit, for you Canadians.
I also remember the odd look my teacher gave me when I gave my answer, and knew somewhere in my tiny, elementary school heart, that she didn’t think this could be my real answer, that I must be confused.
So all these years, decades even, I’ve questioned myself. Is eighty degrees really my favorite? Is that too hot for normal people? Am I somehow an outlier? A black swan?
Yesterday, it was eighty degrees outside. The breeze crept in slim wedges, then stilled, then spiraled across my forehead, gently, a lover’s touch. My bare feet were comfortable in the grass, easing in, not numb with cold, not wanting-to-shed-skin hot. I read. I wore sunglasses. I moved like a song, a hymnal, a sweet pea vine.
Eighty degrees is fine. Just fine.
3 responses to Eighty Degrees and Holding
If you are strange, then so am I. Oh wait, that’s probably not a good endorsement. In any case, 80 to 82 is perfect. Below 70 is for the birds. Above 90 is also for the birds, although probably a different species of bird.
I like these little short essays and stories Jennifer/Jenny/Jen. It’s the written version of a single photo, which is a form I like very much. ‘Short’ is an exceedingly hard medium to do well, but you continue to do it with aplomb and ocassionally with a plum.
FJ, I am so pleased to hear that. I agree, they are a sort of capturing of a moment in time, and I can even see then “whole” sometimes, like a photo. I don’t think of myself as good at ‘short,’ but generally lazy and strapped for time, so I have to squeeze in little bursts of words. It’s encouraging to know that they seem complete and enjoyable by themselves.
p.s. Occasionally a plum, but more often a mango.