Dear Summer,
I know you think it’s been going great between us, what with your sunny disposition and all, but I’m calling it quits. It’s not you; it’s me (but only in the sense that I really can’t stand you).
You’re smothering me. I feel like I can’t get a deep breath, and not in the good, lovesick kind of way, but in the this-air-is-too-humid-and-I-feel-like-I’m-underwater way. I miss going for walks like I did with Spring and Autumn, but if I try to walk with you, I end up sweaty, wheezing and coughing. Sure, every now and then I’ll step out into the sun or feel a warm breeze and remember why I liked you, but the pit stains and pollen aren’t worth it. Why do you feel the need to blanket my car in yellow? It’s totally uncalled for. And don’t get me started on heat rash, AKA the point where my body literally can’t take the heat and decides to implode instead.
It’s bad enough that I have to deal with all of your mess, but you always bring along your friends, too. I hate to be the one to say it, but no one likes mosquitos. I don’t know why you bring those guys everywhere with you. I like keeping my blood in my body, thank you very much, and your friends just can’t respect that. And what is it with you and wasps? I can understand bees, sure, but wasps are easily the most evil winged creatures alive. They even look evil, all pointy and ominous, like Maleficent. I shouldn’t have to be afraid for my life when I hear a buzz over one shoulder.
And Summer, I know you love the beach, but I just can’t do it anymore. What is it with you and sand? There’s nothing appealing about it – burning my feet on it, eating it in my sandwich by mistake, even being sanded down to my bones by a gust of wind – I’ve had enough. Furthermore, I have no desire to squeeze myself into a tiny swimsuit and parade along the shore to be judged by skinnier, tanner, better-shaved people. I’ll only burn, Summer. Every overexposed inch of me will burn and flake, and you know it. And even if you put aside all of that, have you seen Shark Week? I do not want to wind up being interviewed about how I lost my arm to a Great White. So if you want to go to the beach, go – I’ll be here, in my air-conditioned room, wearing my preferred amount of clothing and fanning myself while I watch Netflix.
These aren’t problems that can be fixed with a picnic and a blue sky. The fact is I can’t take the heat, so I want out of the damn kitchen. I’ll head up north, and you stay down here with your overcrowded beaches and your muggy thunderstorms that scare my dogs. I don’t want to be sweaty and grumpy anymore, and if that means crawling back to Winter, then I’m more than happy to. Don’t worry – you’ll find someone else who wants to have fun in the sun.
Sincerely,
A grumpy, sweaty, heat-sensitive person.
