For those of you who live somewhere other than the north-eastern seaboard of the US, or live here but in some kind of tube, summer hit with a vengeance this week. I met the heat with great optimism at first, trotting out on Sunday for a bit of fútbol in Prospect Park.

Bahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha (gasp) hahahahahahahahahahaha.

Boy, that was an adventure. Nothing like spending the first 90° day running one's ungracefully aging (and never a real prize to begin with) body up and down a soccer pitch for a few hours. After my first bit in, I had to sub out with my life passing in front of my eyes and my heart making like a Mexican jumping bean in Looney Toons. Cardiovascular adventures are of course best shared, and I got to play with a group of mostly British expats who, despite their cultural heritage, succeeded at playing at a level which made me feel right at home. Championship-level stuff this was not. Honestly, I was too busy trying to breathe to follow the ball.

After a few hours of friendly play, we crawled to the nearest shade and lay where we fell, looking for all the world like the victims of a bomb blast.

Anyhow, that was Sunday's brush with heart failure. I still bear the scars: a strained ache in both thighs and intensely sunburned shins, for some reason.

The weather, as weather is wont to do, defied all predictions and has remained hot since. The last few days have seen me completely drained, my body working hard just to maintain a fresh coat of sweat. And so, at long last, I've installed my trusty old air conditioner, and am about to switch that bad boy on.

See, this year, as with most, I try to wait until the very last possible moment to give in to the lure of cool air from a windowbox. I can't really put my finger on why, but it seems like cheating. Maybe this is some sort of inner Luddite coming out, or the penny-pinching fear of incoming electricity bills. Or some sort of subconscious personal conditioning, hoping that since I'm unwilling to work off this belly, I might be able to sweat it off instead. Perhaps it's the fear that as soon as I install the air conditioner, the heat wave will break, and I'll look like an idiot. Or it could be the lingering effects of a Catholic dad and a Jewish mom, my heritage telling me that I need to suffer some more in order to be taken seriously. More likely it's my own twisted bid to get around any possible attempt by the universe to impose karmic law.

It works like this: If life has X amount of suffering headed my way in my lifetime, I figure I might as well get started chipping away at that now. You know, handle the suffering in easy to handle bitesized chunks of hot, sweaty, unproductive days when I can, as an attempt to avoid a crippling car crash later. It's like self-flagellation, without so much bleeding or crushing sense of guilt and inadequacy.

And so now I'm ready to get to sleep, if I can, and I'm wondering if I really need the AC on now or not. It's only 88° in here, and I might just be able to take one more night on top of the sheets. Each one is one less shard of windshield in my face when the time comes, dontchaknow?