Of all the things I imagined being at this age, lukewarm was not one of them. Middling. Almost-but-not-quite content. That terrible nagging nearly-okay-ness that is somehow more unbearable than the fiercest of hardships. These years are the temperature of the backyard spa our parents installed, into which we would invariably leap before it was hot. The ache of tepid water, worse than the burn of our teenaged feet when we ran from the night-iced grass to plunge into frothing hot bubbles, forty degrees, gasping at the pain. No, this bored ennui is worse. We all have microwaves humming in our chests. We’ve long thrown the matches away, and we let the turntables revolve empty, waiting for a fat frozen chicken to coax back into teeming salmonellic life.