My domestic partner is a man of science but he harbors dark doubts about thermometer technology. When he steps out of a 75-degree house into an 85-degree world, and a breeze causes his skin to feel cool, he concludes that it’s cooler outside than in: He throws open the doors.
I work hard for my indoor coldness and my low humidity. I fiddle with venetian blinds to permit light, but limit heat. I have lined my curtains with white stuff to return intrusive sunbeams from whence they came. I cook outside. And I keep the freaking windows and doors closed when it’s warmer outside than in.
“But it feels warmer inside.” That’s the refrain.
“Feelings aren’t facts,” that’s my response.
“Physics,” that’s my response. “Evaporative cooling. Google it.”
Turning a fan on my domestic partner, that’s my response.
Positioning one thermometer inside the door and one outside the door, I have tried this.
But feelings can feel remarkably like facts, and so they endure. Summer after summer after summer.
As marital discord goes, this is small potatoes. Inevitably, after a week or two of bickering over windows and doors, summer dithers off the tropics again, and we return our attention to the thermostat wars.