At the end of the summer of 2017, my friends and I threw a going-away party for an air conditioner. 

… Let me explain.  

Every summer, Southern California experiences a couple days of sweltering heat. A tropical storm will sneak its way up past Baja and plant itself somewhere a hundred miles off the coast of San Diego. The sky becomes dotted with those puffy clouds that take on all sorts of fun shapes and the air becomes not only warm, but thick with humidity.  

But that’s it. Two, maybe three, days and then it’s done. This kind of heat, in other words, is rare. Rare enough, in fact, that ninety or so percent of the homes and apartments in town (especially if they’re rentals) don’t have any sort of central A/C system. Tack on insulation that hasn’t been updated in fifty years and you essentially have a small city of saunas. 

Now it was in the living room of one such “sauna” that some buddies and I were commiserating on a July afternoon. We’d been through weeks of this kind of heat and, according to that row of little sunshine icons in our weather apps, we weren’t destined for relief anytime soon. Four of us shared an upstairs unit at the time. Another four lived downstairs, in the unit directly below. We were congregated there, in the downstairs apartment, to escape the rising heat.  

“This is ridiculous!” one friend groaned, a noticeable tone of desperation in his voice. “I’d take a shower, but then I get out, and I just start sweating again!”  

“I haven’t worn a shirt in days,” another guy shared. (Granted, this wasn’t necessarily atypical for him.) 

“What do we do?” I – the perpetual problem solver – asked. “We could go camp in San Francisco for the weekend. I hear it’s foggy there.” Yes, camping in fog. We really were that desperate. 

“I have an idea!” my friend Cody interjected. There was hope in his eyes, the first trace we’d seen in a while.  

The next day, Cody pulled into the driveway looking something like Caesar returning to Rome on the eve of victory. He opened the back door of his car and there, buckled in like his very own child, sat our salvation – a portable A/C unit.

​​​The next day, Cody pulled into the driveway looking something like Caesar returning to Rome on the eve of victory. He opened the back door of his car and there, buckled in like his very own child, sat our salvation – a portable A/C unit. He got it from his girlfriend, he said. One of her housemates had one, too, so this was just an extra they had lying around.  

The thing was brand new, its curves and lines giving it the look of a cutting-edge spacecraft. We rushed it inside, shut all the doors and windows, and plugged it in. Then, out poured a cool breeze that we swore came straight from heaven. 

And so it was. For the ensuing couple of months, we enjoyed the uninterrupted bliss of chilled, filtered air. Nothing compared to stepping in from the baking hot city sidewalks to feel the cool rush of our urban oasis. Neighbors would walk by our window, poke their heads in to see the new addition, and give a “thumbs up” that contained both approval and envy. We were living like kings. 

Until, of course, we weren’t. The day came when Cody’s girlfriend needed her A/C back. There wasn’t much we could do. It was her property, after all. But we asked if we could have just one more day with it, to give it a proper goodbye. Graciously, she obliged.   

And there, taped across the living room wall, a banner of butcher paper announced the reason for the occasion: “It’s not a goodbye; It’s A-C you later.”

The following day, all eight friends convened in the downstairs apartment once more for a party. Lime green and electric blue popsicle juices tainted people’s hands and faces. Sad, sweet songs blasted out of the corner stereo as we sang along like howling dogs. And there, by the window, laboring on our behalf for the last time, sat the best thing that had happened to us that summer – the A/C unit.  

Somebody had fashioned a yellow-and-pink-striped cone hat on its “head,” to match the ones we were wearing. ​​And there, taped across the living room wall, a banner of butcher paper announced the reason for the occasion: “It’s not a goodbye; It’s A-C you later.”  

It’s funny – isn’t it? – what constitutes a party in our minds, and what doesn’t.  

Maybe our general lack of celebration in everyday life doesn’t have so much to do with a lack of occasions to celebrate as it does the limits we place around our imaginations.

​​​​Maybe our general lack of celebration in everyday life doesn’t have so much to do with a lack of occasions to celebrate as it does the limits we place around our imaginations. It’s not hard, when it comes down to it, to throw a party. You just need a host and a specific reason (it doesn’t have to be a good reason) why you’re inviting a chosen set of people to come together. So, what will it be? An adoption shower for your new parakeet? An I-quit-my-terrible-job bash? A space heater “housewarming” soiree? (Make sure you credit me for that one.) Imagine. Plan. Invite. Then, please, party! Because we all need more of it. 

Ready to plan your own party “for no good reason”? Click here to download a guide to get you started.