It's been cloudy and raining for a week. This time of year I usually have the air conditioner running, but I'm closing windows because fresh air is making it a little too cool in the house. It's great sleeping weather though.
This morning while blow-drying my hair, I slipped the blow-dryer under my t-shirt at my waist. A move I typically do on winter mornings. I moved it from front to back several times and warmed my torso. It's important to maintain a perfect pace so the skin stays warm but doesn't burn -- something that happens when the dryer gets too close to my skin and stays in the same place for a second too long. The warmth never lasts. When I remove the dryer, I'm chilled again -- even more so. Always. But I can't resist the easy warmth, even if it's fleeting.
When I was a little girl I wore long, flannel nightgowns during winter months. Floor registers delivered our heat and when the heat kicked on, I stood over the nearest register so my nightgown filled with warm air. It was wonderful. My parents allowed me a few moments of uninterrupted warming, but then reminded me that the heat wasn't getting to the rest of the room. My brother begged for a turn, but I convinced him it was wasted on his body because his pajamas didn't billow with proof of contained and appreciated heat.
When I stepped off the floor register, the heat seemed to instantly dissipate, taking with it any of my own body's warmth. I was always worse off -- colder -- than before I stepped on the floor register. Always. But I could never resist the easy warmth, even though it was fleeting.