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The perfect temperature is 61 degrees Fahrenheit. That’s 16.1(repeating) to any Euro freaks who might be reading this. 289.261 Kelvin if you’re nasty. Any other temperature is either too cold or too hot. Sorry, but some things are just true.
I’ve come to this conclusion after much study of the human body, the natural world, and how the two interact. I will brook no argument with my findings, which are neither replicable nor reproducible. This is simply the truth. One of the deep truths of the world. As Seneca the Younger once wrote, “veritas numquam perit.” 61° is simply right and correct. You know in your heart that this is true
I’m not normally prone to explicating on things of this nature, but I’ll give a few reasons for why 61° is perfect. One, It’s cool enough that you don’t need a jacket, but you could wear one if you wanted to. Myself, I love a jacket. I think I look great in jackets. I also like a nice cable-knit sweater or flannel. Having the option to wear one or the other is perfect for me. I can just live off whatever clothing vibes I’m feeling that day. Long-sleeve t-shirt and a sick fall jacket? Perfect. That sweet flannel the chef on the The Bear wears and some jeans? Also works. A plethora of clothing options for the sartorial minded.
Secondly, you don’t have to worry about getting sweaty. 61° is the GOAT not-sweating weather. Even if the sun does shine like directly on you, it’s not going to feel that hot. Certainly not hot enough to sweat. This isn’t to say that perspiration isn’t possible. It certainly is if you’re working hard. But the effort required to sweat is much more than it is if it’s like 70° out. On the opposite side, you don’t get any of the discomforts of it being too cold to sweat either. Another win-win.
I don’t have a third reason. Two is enough.
Now that I’ve convinced you that 61° is the perfect temp, we can move on to more important things. Namely, what to do when it’s 61° outside. A whole new world opens up once the mercury hits that beautiful spot on the thermometer. Here are just a few things you can do when it’s 61°: drink a dark beer, sit comfortably by a firepit, eat chili in comfort, and finally, think about buying a new hat. Some of these things you can do when it’s 60° or 62° or even hotter or colder temps. But they just won’t be as good as a time. I promise.
I’ve used the word “perfect” a lot in this piece. An inflammatory word for sure, but one I chose with care. The philosophers have much to say on the idea of perfection. In The Genealogy of Morals Nietzsche wrote, “Perfection is and of itself. There exists nothing outside of perfection and the struggle for it.” It is rumored that Sartre, deep into his cups, once opined on the role of perfection in Medieval art for a full three hours, finally concluding that “sans la mort il n'y a pas de perfection.” There are even reports, though never confirmed, that Bertrand Russell wrote a never published thousand-page treatise on the subject, but eventually gave up on it because “What I know of perfection would not fit on all the paper in the world.” Needless to say, perfection is a sensitive subject, even if I did just make up all those quotes. Ayn Rand of course, is beneath us and shall not be mentioned.
Can something be truly perfect? Yes, but only in the eye of the beholder. There is no objective perfection, despite what the millions of braying internet objectivists might proclaim. It sounds like a cop-out answer, but it’ really the only one available to us. Humanity is just made up of too many different opinions, cultural experiences, what have you, to declare anything perfect for everyone. Which is a good thing. The possibility of many perfections all existing, each perfect and flawed in their own wonderful ways, is beautiful. To know that you are surrounded by things that someone finds perfect every day is a comforting thought. The journey to understand that perfection, even if that understanding may never come, is the best that humanity has to offer. It would be a mighty dull world if everyone had the same ideas of perfection. Don’t believe me? Just read The Araboolies of Liberty Street and you’ll see that I’m right.
Try and enjoy the end of summer.
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