Hot Girl Summer? Nah, I’m Dating My AC
- Hannah L
- Jun 28
- 3 min read
Updated: Jun 28
They say love is patient, love is kind
But love also blows cold air directly on my thighs at 3:00 a.m
And baby, that’s intimacy
This summer?
A steamy, sticky hellscape
Humidity’s at 200%
My skin’s breaking out like a hormonal teen
And the sun?
The sun is my sworn enemy. (It’s giving: allergic to joy, rays, and vitamin D.)
While others flirt at beach bars
I whisper sweet nothings to my LG window unit
He hums for me
Never too loud, never too quiet
Just the right amount of "pshhhhhhh"
I used to chase toxic heat
Sunburns, sweat stains
heat-induced nausea
But now I know better
Now I choose chill
My friends say I’ve changed
That I cancel plans when it’s “too sunny”
That I spend too much time indoors
Lying in front of my air conditioner
Like I’m posing for a renaissance portrait
They don’t get it
Only my AC understands me
It never judges me for napping at 2 p.m
Or for pressing my face against its vents
Like a desperate Victorian woman gasping for fresh air
It just… gets me
Some say it’s not real love
But what do they know?
They’re out there chasing tan lines and dehydration
I’m in here, moisturized, hydrated, emotionally regulated
So no, I’m not single
I’m in a committed, exclusive, slightly codependent relationship
With my air conditioner
And we’re registered at Home Depot
Most people hear "sun allergy" and laugh a little. They think I’m being dramatic, overly sensitive, or just... tired. But solar urticaria is real. It’s not a quirky inconvenience—it’s a disabling, painful, isolating condition that makes every sunny day feel like a punishment.
Imagine your body going to war because you stepped outside. Not a burn. Not a tan gone wrong. A full-blown allergic reaction. Hives. Dizziness. Nausea. Joint pain. Flu-like fatigue. Sometimes, trouble breathing.
Now add suffocating humidity to the mix—humidity that doesn't just make me sweat but makes my entire nervous system rebel. It inflames everything: my muscles, my skin, my sinuses. It sucks the strength out of my bones and leaves me laying in bed every night, crying in silence, because the pain is so severe and no one really sees it.
People love to hand out advice like it’s a cure: "Go for a swim!" "In the sun?? That's literally the trigger." "Just wear sunblock!" As if SPF is a magical barrier against autoimmune chaos. "Put on a hat!" Cute. Except UV rays don’t ask for permission—they bounce off pavement, buildings, car windows, and crawl underneath your clothes. "Just stay in the shade!" Do you even know what a UV index is?
Eventually, when none of their solutions fix me, I become the problem. I’m “difficult.” I’m “overreacting.” A “hypochondriac.” In fact, after hours of being a passenger in a vehicle in the direct sun, I passed out in the hallway. This is after my eye shut and turned purple. I was kicked repeatedly, being told to, "Stop faking it."
No one admits their advice was wrong—just that I must be. And so I retreat. Again.
Every day, I’m forced to choose the lesser of two evils. Risk my health for the sake of appearing normal? Or isolate myself inside, where the AC hums and I can breathe?
I choose my air conditioner. Not because I’m lazy. Not because I like being indoors all day. But because dating my AC is a lot better than dating an ER visit.
And yeah, it’s gotten that serious on several occasions. Two seconds of unprotected sun exposure can give me hives. Even with long sleeves, hats, gloves—yes, gloves—I often end up in bed by nightfall, rotting from the inside out, feeling like my body is decaying under my own skin. But at least I’m not in a hospital bed, wondering if the next reaction will shut my lungs down.
And still, they question me.
Just the other day, I was verbally assaulted for parking in a handicap space—one that’s clearly marked on my plate. But because I don’t “look sick,” I’m accused of faking. Never mind that parking close to the entrance in 90-degree sun with a UV index of 9 is the only reason I didn’t collapse.
This is what disability looks like. Invisible. Misunderstood. Constantly questioned. And it hurts—physically, mentally, emotionally.
So no, I won’t “just come outside for a bit.” No, I’m not trying to ruin the vibe. And no, I’m not making this up.
I’m surviving the only way I know how: By staying cool. By hiding from a sun that feels like it was made to burn me. By dating my air conditioner like it's the only one who truly gets me.
Because right now, it is.
If you don't want to go out in this crap either, just tell people, "Nah, I'm dating my AC." :)

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