Fleeting

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.