When I lived in Chicago, summer was a blissful season. Stuffing my face at the Taste of Chicago. Sitting on the back porch watching the fireflies dance. Napping on the hammock, waking up with a rope diamond pattern indented on legs. Towels, water toys,cowboy boots and over-sized bags of Cool Ranch Doritos stacked up on the dining room table, ready to be packed for the annual family vacation. All those blissful memories that made me pine for summer during icy Chicago winters. And when it arrived, I was in heaven.
Now, as an adult, living in the Deep South, I hate Summer. Yes, it's heresy to some but I. HATE. SUMMER.
A woman at the wheel of her gray sedan, clenching her steering wheel at the ten and two position, leaning forward trying to see lines on the road through the sheets of fat rain drops.
Her hair, which was painstakingly straightened 12 hours ago, is now pulled back into a messy ponytail; and act of surrender to the humidity which caused the straight strands to curls by 10AM.
She utters a curse word as the local meteorologist comes on the radio and gleefully chirps that today was the umpteenth day in a row of 90+ degree weather and there is no cool off in sight.
A huge streak of lightening cracks just above her. It's an unwelcome sight for someone who has an irrational yet debilitating fear of getting struck by lightening.
She sniffs and grimaces when she realises that, despite only being outside for less than 3 minutes, her antiperspirant is definately not strong enough for this heat.
And when she pulls safely into her driveway, exhausted from the long commute home, thankful her tiny son slept though the whole adventure, she sighs deeply, knowing that in this Deep South summer, this will all happen again tomorrow.
That my friends, is my every day between late May and early June. Yankees can brag now about their warm days and cool summer nights but remember, when you are freezing your ass off in January, I won't be wearing a coat.
I consider it a fair trade.