In my five years in the “real world” (not the one slated to take place in Brooklyn; that is far from “real” – and watching it is far less tolerable than sitting in a cubicle all day), I’ve found myself adjusting to the little quirks of growing up. But one of the things I was most surprised by was my sudden turn-around in my opinion of summer.
I hereby declare that after years of wrangling with this issue, summer is my least favorite season.
Memorial Day weekend is the ultimate tease for someone with grade-school and college memories still fresh in their minds: the build-up to summer begins, fooling you into believing that from then until Labor Day, your life will abound with days of grilling and boozing, nights of more boozing outdoors, and mornings of sleeping in until noon, before repeating the process.
Then yesterday morning came along, and you remembered that it’s all just a distant memory.
The lack of a summer vacation is not the real reason I’ve turned on summer. There’s a much simpler reason: when it’s cold, you can always add layers; yesterday, it was so hot and sticky that I wanted to take off my skin. The problem is even worse in New York; you might as well just stick yourself in a giant convection oven all summer. You’d be better off, and you wouldn’t have to worry about getting a sunburn.
I broke into a sweat during a one-block walk from the gym to the subway. I refused to wait for an express train; I took whatever train came first, just to get into something air-conditioned. I made the extra effort to walk on the shady side of the street. I love this city, but I cannot stand the heat here. During the summer, just looking outside makes me hot.
And so, the countdown begins to Labor Day, when the leaves change, the temperatures drop, and I can wear something fashionable again without drenching it in sweat.
Remind me of all this when I complain about how cold it is next winter.