I wrote this a few years ago, and while I’ve changed my tune about summer somewhat, it seems appropriate to repost it on the 10th 100 degree Austin day in a row. Oy. Next time, I’ll try to focus on something non-heat related. Promise.
I hate summer. Hate it. I know it’s a shameful thing to admit, second only to telling someone that you actually texted in a vote for the Norwegian fire dancers on America’s Got Talent, but each year my mood instantly darkens when when June rolls around. There’s the heat. The humidity. The constant fear of contracting the West Nile Virus at a backyard weenie roast and leaving my kids motherless. But honestly, I just don’t see what the big deal is. “Summer fun”? “Summer lovin’”? Summer, my ass. Call me in September when I can wear long pants again.
I haven’t always felt this way. In fact, I actually liked summer when I was a kid. This was mostly because I grew up in North Dakota, so being able to play outside without losing body parts to frostbite was a nice treat. Also, no school. Even a nerd like me appreciated sleeping in late and watching The Price is Right every morning. But as I got a little older, my hatred of June, July and August began in earnest. After all, there’s nothing a bookworm likes to hear less than, “Put that down and get outside! It’s summer, for crissakes!” I can’t even imagine how many books I didn’t get to read because I was forced to jump through a stupid sprinkler instead. No wonder I didn’t get any scholarships.
The seasons I like are fall, winter and spring. The Business Seasons. The times of year when people act responsibly and contribute to society. For nine wonderful months, the world is mind-numbingly boring and gray—just the way I like it. Then suddenly, that smug little bastard Summer blows into town and within minutes, everyone’s dancing on tables and drinking tequila out of belly buttons. “Oh, look, it’s June! Let’s go on vacation for three weeks! Let’s wear big, floral prints and flip flops! Let’s waste hours shaving, waxing and self-tanning ourselves orange! And let’s only drink things that start with the word “iced”! Quick! To the LeBaron convertible everyone! Beach volleyball awaits!” For the love of God, just bludgeon me with a pool noodle.
Unfortunately, the only escape I can think of is to fly to Siberia, but who wants to go to Siberia? They don’t even have a Banana Republic. So that’s why this summer, I have no choice but to just accept it. Accept that my thighs are permanently stuck together, accept that I look like a female serial killer whenever I wear a tank top and accept that at least once a day, I’ll slip on a melted Popsicle and lie sprawled on the boiling hot sidewalk while yellowjackets sting me repeatedly in the neck. But you know what? That’s okay.
Because while there certainly ain’t no cure for the summertime blues, there’s still two liquor stores within driving distance of my air-conditioned house. No matter what the season.