As spring does its springy thing — budding flora, blaring sunshine, apocalyptic allergies, humping squirrels, the air lousy with tweetling birdies — I return to my annual choleric conclusion: spring sucks.
It’s an old song I warble, a self-pitying plaint performed on banjo and harmonica. It’s almost T-shirt and shorts time, which makes me shudder the way I gladly do in the cherished chill of fall and winter. Spring, though well under way, is creeping ahead, producing mostly 60s yet dipping into the 50s when we’re extra lucky.
Still, I’m steeling for the worst.
Spring’s bonus gift: allergies. I’ve been blowing my nose in a single sustained honk since late March and my eyes won’t stop watering. I feel like I’m endlessly weeping. I am. I’m crying that summer is around the sweaty bend. (Oh, and: gesundheit.)
I prefer short cool days — dark at 6 p.m. — to long, hot days. Vampiric, nocturnal, certifiable — label me how you will. I just know it’s only going to get worse before it gets better.
Five more months of climatic distress, some of it dimly tolerable, some of it abominable. I welcome October like an old friend unseen in years, with backslaps and bear hugs, a pal who brings me a light jacket as a gift.
Yesterday I broke my second sweat of the season. Thrills were at a premium.
This operatic whining is me blowing off steam about the coming steaminess and the attendant pool parties, barbecues, spring breakers, sun roofs, flip flops, humidity, bees and beaches. I’m fairly infantile about the whole thing, but really, I just don’t look good in shorts. Sneezing and sunburn — also not big on my to-do list.
My minority status is solidified. I’ve met maybe three people who spurn spring and summer in favor of the brisk breezes and long shadows of fall. People don’t often understand outliers, and I in turn can’t fathom those who relish the hot months. Besides vacation time (yet who actually wants to vacate in the 90-degree swelter?), I see few pluses.
Obviously there’s no way around the seasonal shift, unless I scurry northward. So I sally forth, declaring with a dash of grit (and gritted teeth): Spring, summer — let’s get this thing over with.
2 thoughts on “Myriad miseries of the muggy months”
I definitely don’t like extreme heat either, as I’ve said before, and I’m not a big fan when the temperature changes dramatically either, as it is a migraine trigger for me. It got up to the 80s in London last week, and I had to leave work early in agony and ended up puking half the night. London is fairly close to fall-style temperatures for much of the year, but it is still too changeable at times for my liking!
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Rapid temperature changes are a nuisance, I totally agree. I’m shocked London hit the 80s so early in the season. I despise the 80s and 90s. I lived in Texas for 12 years and it was, weather-wise, an almost daily nightmare. No seasons, always in the 80s, 90s and 100s. It was all about sweat, and it was gross.