I love to hate. Complaining is second nature, and despite Dr. Pangloss’ proclamation about the best of all possible worlds, even in the velvet rut of Austin, I find things to whine about.
So for example, I hate commuting or driving in traffic. Sitting in traffic is the universe telling you that you’re doing something at the wrong time, or that there’s a hurricane warning in your home town. So I have engineered a life where by-and-large, I don’t have to sit in traffic. Right now, I’m contemplating whether to risk going to a 7p kickboxing class on 183 and Ohlen, as the roads won’t be clear. I have a mental block when it comes to clogged highways – so can’t picture myself on 183 North at 6:30p on a weekday. I would get up at 5am to avoid rush hour if I had a downtown job.
So if I do find myself in traffic, I will be hating. Loathing and spewing vitriol under my breath like a crack fox. And the loathing will lead to decisions about routing and timing in the future, and will thus elevate my standard of living. Hating can, you see, lead to self-improvement, and a better world.
So it is that the humidity fest that is the Austin summer season begins. Now let me just for the record talk a little about what I’m used to. I grew up in small villages around mighty might Loughborough. It’s cool and not very humid in summer. At least I don’t think it is. I have no idea, as no one ever talks about humidity. If it’s humid, then it’s probably raining.
In Austin however, it’s freakishly hot in summer, and the sun is so bright that it feels like someone has cut a hole in a microwave oven door, duct-taped a rock onto the cook switch, and then rammed it on your head. And to make it worse, it’s as if someone put some water on a bowl on top of your head before they did that, and surrounded the whole thing in a bin bag, so that you’re not only being roasted, you’re being suffocated and steamed like a box of frozen vegetables. Only you’re not frozen. You just wish you were.