Life in the first world is pretty sweet. You can order just about anything to be delivered to your door: pizza, wings, groceries, shoes, clothes, even hookers. We have running water and electricity. Many of us even have TVs with too many channels to know what to do with. There are tons or radio stations to choose from. Aisles and aisles upon shit we don’t need at the grocery store. We even have access to restaurants who only specialize in grilled cheese.
That’s pretty amazing.
You know what my favorite first world amenity is? Air conditioning. Sweet, sweet air conditioning.
Being hot and sweaty makes me angry. Stepping outside and being hit with 90 degree heat is enough to make me want to break shit. It’s important to have a respite from such things. That’s why I love my central air in my house and the air conditioning in my house. Amazing. And awesome.
When my sister and I were growing up in Virginia, I remember how fucking hot the summers would get. She, the dog, and I would fight over who got to lay in front of the fan in the hallway. We poor sweaty little children were grumpy the bulk of the summer. It always confused me when my mother would tell us to go play outside. First of all, we hated being outdoors, second, it was hotter than sin. For us the best thing to do under such things was lay as still as possible and hope that there would suddenly be a freak windstorm in the house.
It wasn’t until years later we found out the house had air conditioning it, but my mother chose not to turn it on. You know why she didn’t turn it on? Because she was born and raised in Mexico, in the third world. Not cool, mom. Not cool. Literally, not cool.