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Where We Are

We're at that point in the summer sports season at no one seems to be able to agree about which point in the season at which we are. Is it too early to make predictions? Is it too late to panic? Where are we, exactly?

I'll tell you where we are:

Today it was 68 degrees and sunny at 1 PM. Josh The Pilot suggested lunch on our tiny table on our tiny deck beneath our mammoth sun umbrella. The sun umbrella is a great source of tension within our marriage. Ever cold, I want it up only when it's over 90 degrees and my skin is actually on fire. Josh panics when the smallest weak sunbeam penetrates the wispiest cloud and starts cranking.

After we ate, we both fetched work to continue enjoying the rare sight of the Ohio sun. But when I returned with my laptop, the umbrella was spread in all its Hoth-generating glory.  

"Why did you put it up?" I said. "It's not cold."

I departed the tiny deck, went to the closet, and returned to loudly put my jacket on at him.

"We're in direct sunlight," he pointed out. "My work computer is getting hot."

"But if I get hypothermia trying to type, that's okay." 

After a moment, the sun vanished behind a cloud, and he rose to put it up again. 

"Thank you," I said, and after a moment, pulled the jacket off.

"See," he said, "it's hot," and departed to put on a hat.

By the time he returned, the sun was out again, and I pointed out that maybe if he hand't declared himself LORD AND MASTER OF THE UMBRELLA without even ASKING ME about what I WANTED, and just left it DOWN, we wouldn't be GOING THROUGH ALL THIS. He replied, while lowering the shade, that he did not wish to feel too warm, and that it was nice out, and that sunny is different from hot. I left to clean the windows instead, and proceeded to miss a deadline.

That's exactly where we are.

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