Summer. (Archive)

The spring fever is gone; the merciless, relentless slimy heat of summer is upon us. No more halcyon days with sweet, flower-scented breezes and the gentle warming upon our skin providing tinges of tan and multiplying freckles. No more enthusiasm about longer days and more daylight. Nope. Now, we stand beside our cars pumping gas or walk our dogs or go outside to check the mail, and the minutes we spend in direct sunlight without any air current make us think, “Oh my freaking god. I’m going to die right here.” And, when we don’t, we are, quite honestly, a bit disappointed.

I dislike hot weather. When slathered with humidity, the world is more irritating. For me, summer is not a time for fun and frolic; it is a time of distress and repulsion. There are certain rules of contentment that summer violates. I prefer to be refreshed from a shower for longer than two minutes after sliding the plastic curtain open, rather than standing in the bathroom saying, “Why did I bother?” In my world, sweating is only enjoyable when accompanied by multiple orgasms; thus, abnormal perspiration, such as under the bodacious ta-ta region or in the crotchal zone, without the mentioned wild primal sex, is, frankly, uncalled for and rude. People are stickier in the summertime but not in a good way. I don’t like that. And the bugs, the dreadful insects. They slam against your body and buzz your ears and completely ignore the “my space, your space” rule. Couple that with the invisible bug syndrome, and madness is assured. Perhaps a hair grazes your neck and for the next few hours, you are slapping and itching, convinced an army of small arthropod animals is trying to kill you with itty-bitty teeth and tiny pokey things. Here’s something: do you know what food tastes good when it’s 90 degrees out? None. Nothing at all. When I am offered items that I normally devour and instead find them to be completely unappealing and sometimes the cause of nausea, well, that’s just not right.

Here’s a tangent, yet a pertinent point. Because every place in the country is smoke-free, I have to be outside in the swelter to partake in my addiction. Let us look at the facts: not only am I purposely killing myself rapidly with carcinogens, but I am also childless, thus doing my part with the world population problem. There. That’s an admirable thing. I believe this garners me at least a small, self-contained, air-conditioned closet in which to smoke. Who would it hurt? Offices have those horrendous vending machines filled with sugar, additives, fat, and overall nastiness; hospitals are chockful of disease and infection; manufacturing plants have chemicals that can melt a human within seconds --- it makes a little tobacco inhalation seem innocuous, don’t you think? Going from 90+ degree heat back into a building that can chill bones causes a kind of waterless bends; add to it the fact that I smoke as much as possible makes a day of outside/inside/outside/inside dangerous. I could get hurt.

Mostly though, summer defeats my best intentions. I want to accomplish things. I want to be active and productive and energetic. It cannot happen. I step outside and immediately am awash with exhaustion. The lethargy seeps into my being. During spring, fall and winter, there are actually little check marks next to items on my to-do lists; I do things. Summer? Uh, no. It is three months of looking around my surroundings, sighing, and giving up. I wish that I could hibernate from the summer solstice to the autumn equinox. I would like the option of completely surpassing the canicular days, fully realizing that a quarter of my life would be spent comatose. I’m fine with that. Do you know what one of the most repulsive sounding words in the English language is? Moist. It sounds disgusting and I would never change it because it is perfect. I would readily sign away a quarter of my life just to avoid moistness. When my world is moist, I am unhappy. Many people on the coasts worship the sun, fully enjoying the beach and all it has to offer. This does not appeal to me, because what is worse than being moist is being moist and gritty. And, I know. I sound like I’m eighty. I’m not; I’m sweaty.

I was watching my dog today lying on wood chips with the sun focused solely on her. She was panting profusely and smiling. She looked at me and seemed to say, “This is glorious! I am almost on fire!” It was a “Watch me, Mom!” moment that continued: “Sometimes I roll in this grass and dirt and get crap all over me! And these little things fly by and I catch them in my mouth and I eat them! And sometimes I forget to drink water when I’m really, really hot so I dry-heave! I love summer!” Fantastic. Beloved canine, I lack your enthusiasm.

Anytime now autumn. I’m all set for your arrival. Anytime now.