Next weekend, whether you like it or not, is the official unofficial end of summer. The Labor Day weekend crowd hit the roadways with family as they all try desperately to escape the humdrum before school gets going, the weather gets colder, and we all switch into a different gear. This year is my first in 22 that I’ve actually felt it as “the end of summer” and not just another holiday weekend.
I hate summer. I’m not sorry. I don’t even like spring that much, because there’s that sense of “summer is coming.” It’s hot and sweaty and full of tweens at the mall at noon on a Tuesday. Granted, I went to work at a school in the subtropics this past year, so I voluntarily put myself in a sweaty, tween-filled environment, but whatever. Just because I like new experiences doesn’t mean I can’t hate the season at its core.
This summer, in particular, was sweltering. Every other week had a heat wave and, according to a post I saw on Twitter, cockroaches in NYC were slated to start flying if the weather didn’t break. Oh, you say, but summer is fun! Beach trips and barbecues and tanning and blah, blah, blah. I love water, but I’ll take a lake or a stream over the beach any day. If I’m outside, put me in the middle of a green oasis, not a sand pit next to chatty Cathys and their screaming children. Barbecues I’m not so hot on either (did you see that coming?). Hot dogs are disgusting. I want a good burger, not one cooked by your dad. And Budweiser? Please, just gag me, instead.
I don’t tan. I burn.
I’ll stop complaining and tell you what I do love: fall. And I have been waiting what feels like forever for it. Please give me chilly weather and the ability to wear a cardigan comfortably. I’ll take a hard cider and an apple doughnut, while you’re at it.
And a slice of pumpkin pie.