Some are born to be hot, lusting after beaches,
saunas, hot springs, Jacuzzis… carnally drawn to searing engulfment.
I have an extraordinary aversion to high
temperature. While everyone else prepares for their Florida retirement, I
daydream of pounding slushies in Alaska. I’m so white I’m almost blue, so UV
rays scorch me like flames on marshmallow. Walking on an August afternoon, I
can actually feel my cells being murdered. If there’s even a leaf’s worth of
shade, I’ll park my little toe there, and indoors I require cryogenic levels of
air conditioning.
I wish the future were colder, but global warming
is as established a fact as the solar system, and it would take a geek with
more degrees than the sun to reverse it. I’m grateful I won’t be around for
smothering pollen counts, charcoaled California, sunken Venice, total
blackouts, and water wars. What can I say? I like my Arctic with a shelf.
Despite our blistering fate, it is worthwhile to
slow down the burn. If we at least delay the inevitable through science and
sacrifice, we could eke out another generation or two—who would greatly
appreciate it—and buy our species a little time to figure a way off the planet.
Really, doing nothing is tantamount to blasting a fart in a packed elevator as
you’re leaving.
And that’s some karmic heat I don’t want to take.
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