I can finally stop blowing hot air

I like to think I’m sexy. I also like to think I’m cool. In reality, I’m neither, unless I have to install a big, heavy air conditioner in the bedroom window and another in the office window, in which case, if I survive, I’m both.

For the past 26 years, the length of time my wife, Sue, and I have lived in our home, we have vowed to install central air conditioning.

And every year, when the place starts to feel like a sauna and I want to sit in a towel, which really makes Sue boil, I’ve had to lug not one but two bulky air conditioners upstairs and install them in the corresponding windows without having a heart attack, hurting my back, or rupturing a vital organ.

There is also the risk of dropping one of the massive metal devices on my foot, breaking my big toe, and walking for the rest of my life with a pronounced limp, which, for those of you who have never experienced such agony because you already have central air conditioning, is pronounced “limpe.”

Over the past few years, I have had help from our son-in-law and contractor, for which I am relieved, grateful, and most importantly, alive.

But now that I’m 70, an age where dragging a trash can out onto the curb is a health hazard, I figured it was stupid, even by my low standards, to continue dealing with air conditioners.

So we contacted Adam Harris, an equipment specialist for our residential heating company, to come assess the situation and help us choose a central air conditioning system that was priced reasonably enough to pay for in cash.

“Will central air conditioning compensate for my hot air?” I asked.

“Yes,” Adam assured me. “But the system may have to work hard.”

“I hope it doesn’t overheat,” I said.

“Don’t worry, that’s not going to happen,” said Adam, who went through every room, downstairs and upstairs, measuring square footage, looking in closets and inspecting the attic. He also went outside to see where a condenser could be placed.

Because of the layout of the house, a two-story colonial, Adam said we could have central air conditioning upstairs, but not downstairs, where expensive ductless units would have to be installed.

“Would we need ductless tape for the units?” I wondered.

“It would take more than that,” Adam said, adding that installers would have to go through floors and walls.

“I am stunned,” I remarked. “And completely crazy.”

Adam, who did not politely disagree, said that the downstairs would stay cool because we already have a large, powerful air conditioner in a wall duct in the family room.

“The central air conditioning is upstairs,” he said, giving us a reasonable price that we accepted.

Unfortunately, the job couldn’t be done for a few weeks when temperatures were going to rise, so I decided to haul one of the two old air conditioners from the garage to our bedroom.

“I have a feeling I’m going to end up like Quasimodo,” I told Sue as I breathlessly carried the device—step by step, inch by inch—through the house and up the stairs.

I put it on an open window in the bedroom and had Sue hold it in place while I screwed the air conditioner into the frame. Then I removed the worn and torn accordion side panels and screwed them into the frame as well. Sue filled the gaps with sticky strips of foam rubber so the chihuahua-sized bugs couldn’t get in.

She plugged the device in and turned it on.

“It still works!” exclaims Sue.

This kept us going until the day our central air conditioning system was finally installed.

“We should have done this a long time ago,” Sue said.

“I may not be as sexy anymore,” I said, “but I’m still pretty cool.”

Jerry Zezima, a Stamford native, writes a humor column for the Tribune News Service and is the author of seven books. His latest is “The Good Humor Man: Tales of Life, Laughter and, for Dessert, Ice Cream.” Email: [email protected]. Blog: jerryzezima.blogspot.com.