After a night spent fully dressed and under as many layers of covers as I could find, I come to grips with the thoroughly disagreeable fact that the heat is not going to fix itself. Despite being in a sweater and wrapped up in a blanket, the small brown dog's teeth are chattering and she can't stop shivering. More bad luck, it's Sunday and the bill will be astronomical. I pull on long johns and two hooded sweatshirts and start the cleaning chores. The tiny flicker of hope that physical activity will keep me warm vanishes when I realize I can barely feel my fingers.
It's nearly November but the weather only turned yesterday. I can see frost on the grass and the deck is covered in dead leaves. A fine time for the heat to go out, not quite as bad as losing the air conditioning in August when the temperature locks in to 100 degrees, but close. All I can see of the small brown dog is the tip of her nose - the other two sleep and keep watch - they're blessed with thick coats and stronger, tougher constitutions. Would that I were more like them.
Not long after I call, the repairman arrives - a cheerful and attractive man who's only defect is his lack of optimism. He crawls under the house, tool belt jingling, and after the first hour the feeling of dread that's been building in me begins to grow feet. I'm trying hard to banish the thought that anything that takes this long is bound to cost prohibitive and when he finally emerges and tells me a figure, I nosedive into as deep a depression as I've had in years. Worse, unless I'm willing to pay an extra few hundred dollars, it needs to wait until tomorrow and even then there's no guarantee that the parts will be readily available. The long chill begins and the small brown dog gives me a look that breaks my heart.
By early afternoon I've made the trip to Sears and bought two ceramic heaters and a heating pad. With both running at full strength for several hours and the outside temperatures getting into the upper fifties, two rooms are marginally less frigid and the small brown dog is curled up peacefully enough on the heating pad. I spend the remainder of the day in a nest of blankets in the sunroom, trying desperately to nap and not think about the rate of interest on the credit cards, what the temperature will be come morning, and how best to convince the bank that I'm a good risk.
I know other people have more serious troubles.
I know it could always be worse.
But on this miserable, nearly November day, I swallow my pride and admit I'm too weary, fed up, and depressed to care.
Not long after I call, the repairman arrives - a cheerful and attractive man who's only defect is his lack of optimism. He crawls under the house, tool belt jingling, and after the first hour the feeling of dread that's been building in me begins to grow feet. I'm trying hard to banish the thought that anything that takes this long is bound to cost prohibitive and when he finally emerges and tells me a figure, I nosedive into as deep a depression as I've had in years. Worse, unless I'm willing to pay an extra few hundred dollars, it needs to wait until tomorrow and even then there's no guarantee that the parts will be readily available. The long chill begins and the small brown dog gives me a look that breaks my heart.
By early afternoon I've made the trip to Sears and bought two ceramic heaters and a heating pad. With both running at full strength for several hours and the outside temperatures getting into the upper fifties, two rooms are marginally less frigid and the small brown dog is curled up peacefully enough on the heating pad. I spend the remainder of the day in a nest of blankets in the sunroom, trying desperately to nap and not think about the rate of interest on the credit cards, what the temperature will be come morning, and how best to convince the bank that I'm a good risk.
I know other people have more serious troubles.
I know it could always be worse.
But on this miserable, nearly November day, I swallow my pride and admit I'm too weary, fed up, and depressed to care.
No comments:
Post a Comment