Heat, heat, never beat

Memories of the incident are vague. I only recall the broad-brush details: The scorching heat, the sinus-busting humidity, and an above-ground swimming pool lit by a green-ish backyard light that made the water look swamp-like and slimy -- something a many-tentacled creature might have found appealing.

Me? I had precisely zero tentacles (bummer), but felt right at home. It was midnight. The glories of air conditioning had yet to grace my childhood home; the heads of my parents bobbed ethereally above the turtle-hued surface, and as far as I was concerned, I could spend the rest of my life in that humble little pool, bobbing for glow-sticks and trying to heed my mother’s warnings about peeing in the water.

Full disclosure: I may have peed. I was six.

Not everyone realizes there are days like this in our northeastern hideaway. After speaking to dozens of people “from away,” I’ve realized that outsiders perceive Maine as a perpetually blustery tundra, nothing but rosey-cheeked carolers and clusters of moose standing ankle-deep in drifts of snow. Nah, I tell them. That’s a misconception. Truth is, there are usually two or three weeks out of the year when you could close your eyes and envision yourself on a beach in Maui, sipping piña coladas served by spikey-haired bartenders named Tiny. The only difference is that, in Maine, piña coladas are replaced by Pabst Blue Ribbon, and if your bartender’s name is Tiny, chances are he’s done time in the can.

In recent days we’ve gone through a stretch that would shock even the most sun-hardened Bible Belt vacationer. Merely sitting in one place and ruminating on the mating habits of the Australian bobcat was enough to make one sweat like an out-of-shape ditchdigger. Never in my life have I been so envious of Michael Phelps -- not because he’s a decorated Olympian, but because he gets to spend all his time in the pool while I sit there and glaze like a flippin’ turkey.

Not everyone gets to experience the unmitigated joy that is air conditioning. I’m one of the lucky ones; my bedroom is kept so artificially cold you could keep meat frozen even through the heat of a nuclear bomb blast. Not everyone’s so lucky, though. Some people end up in their pool at midnight, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when their lives went horribly awry.

These are the folks who could benefit from a few tips on how to beat the heat. This is where I come in. See, an undiscerning reader might mistake this column for an exercise in narcissistic self-promotion. A vacuous wasteland. The self-indulgent ravings of a nincompoop. Stop me at any time.

On the contrary. I offer this column as a public service. I care very, very deeply -- just roll with it -- and so because I care, here are a few small things you can do to ride out these heat waves in style.

Tip number one: Watch movies with lots of snow in them. I know, it’s summer and you don’t want to be reminded of those endless months when freak blizzards and bleeding knuckles are legitimate concerns. But this is actually the best time of year to fill your brain with visions of sugarplums, because you can revel in the joys of winter without incurring any of the actual responsibilities: the shoveling, the snowblowing, the silent weeping as you drive down the highway at 10 mph. There’s even some preliminary scientific evidence that tweaking our thoughts can change how temperature affects our bodies. The most visible record of this evidence is a blog post from Dr. Oz, though, so maybe it’s best to take this one with a grain or three of salt.

Tip number two: Get a good cross-breeze going. OK, so you don’t have an air conditioner. You’ve got windows, right? Find two windows that are situated more or less across from each other, open them as wide as you can, and then click your heels three times while chanting “There’s no place like Siberia.” If you really want to get the air circulating, think about buying one of those fans that fits into a window, then install it so it sucks the cooler outside air into the room. It’s not the same as artificial, processed air, but it’s something. Oh, and the heel clicking does nothing.

Tip number three: Get used to the basement. If you’ve got one, make the best of it; basements are amazing. They’re perpetually cool, no one cares if you don’t keep them clean, and they’re a great place for monsters and vampires to hang out -- you know, in case you’re looking to arrange a good poker game. A lot of men nowadays use their basements as so-called “man caves,” sanctuaries where they can smoke cigars and watch dirty movies and do other gross man-type stuff. (Think scratching and belching.) But even if the basement has been macho’d up, that doesn’t mean a woman can’t infiltrate this space during periods of extreme heat. As long as she doesn’t mind sitting on a couch half-covered in dirty dish towels and fishing magazines, it’s a great place in which to chill. Literally.

Of course, the best and easiest way to beat the heat is to buy a dang AC unit already. But things happen. Maybe you’re strapped for cash, or your AC broke down just when a late-season rager hit. This is why you should print or cut out this column, paste it to your refrigerator, and think of me lovingly every time you’re not sweating from the nostrils. This is how you avoid those pesky late-night swims. And with that, the public service portion of today’s screed is now complete.

You’re quite welcome.