- by Michael!
I do not like hot weather.
This may come as a surprise to you if we have never, ever
met. Otherwise it should be pretty much obvious, as I must say at least once
daily how warm / stuffy / sweltering it is in whatever space I find myself, and
then turn on a fan. Or find an airconditioner. Or climb into a cryogenic embryo
storage container. I’m not picky, as long as it’s cold.
There are many reasons for this heat antipathy, of course.
Physical reasons. Like, I’m a large and hairy person with some obsessive
compulsive tendencies. The second part of that sentence means that I absolutely
MUST – at a physical, atomic level, I MUST – shower if I get really sweaty,
while the first part of that sentence ensures that, in the summer, I’m almost
always really sweaty. How much fun!
Also, I am pale. Very pale. So pale that I can achieve a
brutish, lobster-colored, blister-laden sunburn in less time than it takes most
people to open their car door to actually get out and go to the beach.
Needless to say, summer is not my favorite season.
Not to say I don’t have fond memories of summers gone by.
Armed with gallons of sunscreen, I spent hours upon hours at the local swimming
pool when I was a kid, and those were some of the happiest times of my
childhood. I typically enjoyed summer camp, as none of my summer camp
experiences involved outhouses. And my family has been known to take trips to
the beach on a regular basis.
But even that last sentence is misleading.
For instance, there was a span of about four years wherein
we went to a house that was technically
at the beach – not right on it, but within a three-minute walk – and yet we
spent perhaps a total of half an hour actually on the beach itself. On our first
night there after the car ride. Yes, at night.
The rest of the time, we would sit in the house – or, if we
were feeling truly adventurous, on the covered and screened in porch – and read.
I used to bring a dozen books at a time to these excursions, and would
invariably end up begging my parents to let me read some of theirs by the end
of the week as I had already plowed through all of mine.
Other times, I went to the beach with friends, and I would certainly
get out in the sun and be more active –which, of course, led to horrific
sunburn, which led me to swear, every time, that I would avoid the sun like the
radioactive ball of gas it is in the future. The sun is not my friend.
That’s not to say I don’t like the beach. I just tend to
like it a lot more in February. It’s just as pretty, less crowded, and I don’t
feel like I’m roasting slowly within my own juices.
So if you see me in the summertime, and it looks like I’m
cranky or worried, don’t fret. I’m probably fine. Just looking for a shower.
Or a cryogenic embryo storage facility.
Whichever is closer.