Every spring when it finally starts warming up outside I get a thrill in my stomach. I start eagerly planning for all the things I’m going to do over the summer– the adventures, the things I’m going to finally get done etc. Then I accomplish next to nothing, and re-read a lot of teen lit.
There’s nothing left to conclude except that I am bad at summer. The hot weather makes me cranky, the inevitable sunburn makes me dread going outside, and even my beloved sundresses lose their luster because no matter how cute they are, I will still inevitable start sweating at some point, and I really, really hate sweating.
Every summer, I manage to spend as much time as possible at work. Other people are always giving up hours, and I bask in the climate control until I’m finally forced to go home to my hot apartment hoping that being in air conditioning all day will cool my core temperature so much that I will be like a cool battery, impervious to the heat. This is not true, I am no scientist, but sometimes I (almost) manage to convince myself.
Summers like this one, where I haven’t had three jobs, I read. I sit in my chair and re-read trashy teen lit and non-trashy teen lit. I like it when I can plow through five books in a day, then I make my trip to the library remembering when I was younger and did the same thing, and referred to the library (in my head) as my office.
Yesterday morning, it was actually rather cool and tolerable until about noontime, so I finally hung up pictures that have been sitting in piles around my office since the move in. Today, it’s currently 62, and I will re-adjust those pictures because I got impatient while hanging them, and now realize that they look stupid. Culture Friend was complaining to me on a recent overcast day that it was so gloomy out she had no ambition. That day was the first since moving in to my new apartment where I actually woke up full of purpose and plowed through my to-do list, then started some new projects.
I simply cannot handle the heat. I can’t do it. I’ve laid low long enough, I’ve made excuses, I’ve lied to myself and others, but no more. I am bad at summer, and I long for fall. That’s just me.