As many of you know, I reside in Dallas, Texas. And although I wasn't born here (my father was transferred from the East Coast when I was eight) I can honestly say I love this state.
I love its wide-open spaces, its independent spirit and its ridiculously affordable real estate. I love its international airport that can get me anywhere in the country in 3.5 hours or less. I love its genuine, down-to-earth people who can be the kindest, friendliest on earth (unless of course, you're uppity or obnoxious or bitchy, in which case, you may want to steer clear.) And I love its larger-than-life personalities although I freely admit to being more in the Mark Cuban/Anne Richards/Molly Ivans camp than the "W"/Jerry Jones/Rick Perry arena.
But above all, I love that in January, I can go outside in nothing but a sweatshirt and stretchy pants and admire a multitude of already-budding trees. Just recently, while doing research for the latest Texas Tourism ad campaign, I came across a quote—"If you don't like Texas in January, you don't like Texas." And I most heartily agree.
But right now, it's the end of July. And it's so bloody hot I want to kill someone. Not anyone in particular, just some nameless, faceless sort on which to exert a bit of senseless violence. I might actually seek out said individual if the heat weren't such an energy-sucking black hole, but fact is, I can barely muster the energy to correct my dogs, let alone inflict a mortal injury.
Fortunately, I also have ready access to what I consider the most valuable invention of the 20th century—air conditioning. And if you in any way diminish its contribution to our society, consider this: four of the top ten largest cities in the U.S. (Dallas, Houston, San Antonio and Phoenix) have only become so since the advent of a/c.
So it's shocking to me that Willis Haviland Carrier has not yet been nominated for the Nobel Prize. After all, his invention has not only improved the lives of millions but it's also responsible for keeping our entire economy alive. Without it, all productivity in a good portion of this country would come to a halt each summer. So in essence, we'd be Europe.
What's more, Mr. Carrier has directly extended the wearability of all the super-cute cashmere sweaters I own since it's nearly impossible to achieve a constant temperature in a city known for glass buildings, "dashboard cookies" and unpredictable weather. On any given day between July and August, direct sunlight can literally peg a thermometer off the chart, which is why you'll feel the constant low-grade hum of compressors and turbines all over the city working to keep interior temperatures down. But should a random cloud front appear overhead and throw those buildings into shade, the temperature inside will quickly dip to something close to 60 degrees, give or take a degree or two, according to the incredibly accurate readings of my nipples.
This is what makes Texas summers so difficult. It's not just the heat, it's the constant swinging between extremes. It's the monumental chasm between the 72-degree comfort of your home and the thigh-blistering 116 of your car. It's the illusion of the beautiful summer day outside your window and the reality of the lung-searing, Mars-like atmosphere that's actually occurring out there. It's the physical need to constantly adapt to wildly differing surroundings. Which is why the ad industry right now is a lot like a hot Texas summer. You have to constantly adapt to everything, and just like the weather, it sucks.
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