it’s the humidity in the basement that’s wilting the cardboard boxes and making my belongings damp. A damp that invites a green film on my sleek winter coat and my vintage, stickered suitcase. Ew. I finally break down and buy a dehumidifier, one of those appliances that are annoying to research. Small? Large? Quiet? Timer? Apparently I’m the only person buying one anyway now that the dry winter is coming on, so there are only a few models left. I tote this contraption home and immediately I’m emptying buckets of water sucked from the air.
The manual (yeah, I read it) says to ventilate, lest the room be oxygen depleted and thus, dangerous. I can’t ventilate, so when I go down there, I take huge gulps of air to see if there’s oxygen. It does feel funny down here. Is this what it feels like to play at Mile High Stadium? What if I pass out? Should I train Maple to dial 911?
A cable repair guy is down there now and when he goes quiet, I wonder if he’s gasping for air. Should I call for help or does a dead repairman on the basement floor look bad for me? He emerges, breathing.
In the morning, I wake up to a bedroom where the air is as dry as Palm Springs. I can’t drink water fast enough and realize I need a humidifier. Unbelievable. Every floor needs regulating. I consider making my bedroom a storage area and sleeping in the basement.