Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Summertime and the Living is...Sweaty

If the holiday season (aka Christmas season in less P.C. circles) is the “most wonderful time of the year,” then I’d like to officially nominate the summer season as the “worst wonderful time of the year.”

As we here in the mid-Atlantic settle in for yet another day under a heat advisory, with temps into the triple digits and the humidity percentage not far behind, I long for the good ol’ days of Snowmegeddon. While it’s easy to say now, I truly prefer shoveling three feet of the fluffy white stuff to living on the surface of the sun.

I marvel at the people who claim summer as their favorite season. Really? You prefer 102 degrees and 75% humidity to the nirvana of spring or fall with their daytime highs in the low 70’s and their fresh, dry mornings? I never knew so many people loved to sweat, at least not while standing perfectly still under a ceiling fan with the A/C working overtime.

Yes, you can swim in the summer – that is if you’re unemployed and actually have time to avail yourself of the community pool. But is the opportunity to immerse oneself in a nasty mixture of water, chlorine, and urine really worth living day-to-day enveloped in what feels like a scorching, wet blanket?

And oh how people love to cook out during the summer. Of course! Nothing says, “Let’s light a radiating hot fire and stand over it grilling meat for hours,” like a sweltering summer day. Mind you, my grill and smoker sit idle in the summer months, lest I contribute further to the oppressive fever plaguing the region during those months. My grilling policy is much like my visiting the state of Florida policy – I don’t do either between June and August.

No thank you, Mother Nature. You can keep your mosquitoes, liquefied air, and blazing orb in the sky. I prefer my days as I prefer my martinis – crisp and very dry. So until a stroll outdoors is complemented by the crunching of leaves underfoot and the joyous perfume that emanates from a crackling fireplace, you’ll find me indoors gazing longingly at my fall wardrobe, tolerating soccer rather than living for football, and cursing my monthly electric bill.

Candy Parker

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