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I don’t pay this much rent to sweat in October

Humidity percentage: Gym shower

Photo by Jonas Weckschmied on Unsplash.

I want to wear a jacket. I want to wear lace-up boots. I want to arrive at my destination in the state of professional dress I was in when I left home. I want a hair day that doesn’t make me look like a late ‘80s rock star after a night of decisions he’ll include in a memoir.

It is October. The best month. The month of Halloween, of heightened breast cancer awareness, and particularly for those of us who have chosen to build our lives on the East Coast, it’s first month of the year that is inarguably fall.

Or is it.

For the last week, and don’t you worry it’ll continue through next, the weather has been serving me sweaty looks that it has no godly right to. This is fall, summer is over, and have paid for the cool weather I deserve with the last five insufferable months of my own sweat.

Sure, sure, you’re thinking there’s nothing unpleasant about 75 degrees. Omg that sounds so nice! Bitch, look at the humidity percentage, don’t be a peasant. The humidity is what causes you to sweat on a subway platform and not be able to apply your own goddamned makeup until you arrive at work. The humidity is what makes your bangs stick to your forehead. The humidity is what makes you feel like you could kick an elderly person and feel no remorse.

I reject this weather. I made a very conscious decision to live rent poor in Brooklyn instead of moderately well off in Dallas because I wanted a few things. I wanted endless professional opportunities in the editorial sphere. I wanted non-stop flights literally anywhere. And I wanted the cool, crisp, apple-picky fall weather that was promised to me in Hocus Pocus.

Give me what I bargained for! This is New England! This is October! This is America. And instead of the blissful fall layers they won’t stop email marketing to me, I’ve got to wear the sheerest, lightest garments possible without getting fired. I’ve got to stand on a subway platform and feel my face boil while my backpack clings to me like a sheet mask and start mentally plotting the deaths of every person in the world who won’t recycle.

I live on the East Coast. The land of changing leaves, of Sleepy Hollow, of Old Bay on everything. And to do so I have paid rents that exceed the mortgage payments of my sane Southern suburban friends by double.

So I’ll say this to the weather that’s behaving like a second semester senior with its college plans all worked out: You have been paid. I have suffered, endured, and arrived at every meeting, date, and doctor’s appointment since April looking like an absolute asshole. I want what’s coming to me, and I want it now. Get your meteorological shit together and behave yourself. You owe me.