Monday, June 26, 2006
I hate summer.
It's nothing personal. I'm sure summer comes from a nice family. Summer's parents believe that summer can never fail, never makes mistakes, is the most talented child on the face of the earth.
But I still hate summer.
I'm ambivalent toward winter. A winter in the Sacramento area is nowhere as harsh as a winter in Missouri, where I went to college. If it hits 32 degrees here, we're certain the world is about to end.
Spring. Fall. Those are the nice seasons. They're moderate. They don't yell. They know how to control their tempers. Occasionally, they throw you a thunderstorm or a chilly morning. They might aggrevate your allergies; spring is the bigger culprit. I like spring. I'm cool with fall.
But I hate summer.
I don't care if you're talking dry heat around here; it's still 102 outside. That's hot. I don't care if you're talking just 80 degrees but with intense humidity; who wants to take 3 showers a day without a real workout or visit to the gym?
The A/C in our office building doesn't work very well, so I'm keeping a fan right next to me. I wear shorts to the office this time of year because it's hot. My semi-new car is releasing all kinds of chemicals and poisons from the plastic under the scorching sun.
Clearly, I hate summer.
But I love summer missions trips and fireworks booths and late-night dips in the pool and early-morning breezes and more time with my students and nothing significant to watch on TV and lots of sunshine hours.
So I guess I can live with summer. Even if I hate it.