I am not a fan of summer. I should clarify -- I'm a huge fan of Summer, the blogger! But I hate summer, the season. Ever since I was very small, I've been extraordinarily sensitive to heatstroke. Put me outside in the heat -- let alone in the sun! -- and I wilt like a dead flower. I get nauseous, I pass out, blah blah blah. It just sucks. I can remember years of being taken home from summer camp early or missing out on everything because I had to lay in the nurse's office with wet washcloths on my head and neck. That still happens, without the camp part.
And for some reason, I moved to the Baltimore/D.C. area. Where, I'm told, people used to get hazard pay for being posted, because the climate is so bad! What was I thinking?
So summer, for me, is basically just three months of being really, really sick. It's not very fun. Last year, in the middle of the summer, my doctor ordered me to lock myself in the air-conditioned part of the house (the upstairs rooms) and work from home for two weeks -- she was afraid I wouldn't survive the commute during a particularly bad heat wave.
Last weekend, we went out to try to do some clearing in the yard. Turned out that the day was somewhat humid. I was out for less than ten minutes, and both of my hands swelled up to twice their size. I couldn't close either hand into a fist, and we both thought we might have to cut off my engagement ring -- my finger was turning purple. After ten minutes in ice-cold water, I managed to get some of the swelling down and the ring off.
I haven't been outside but to run to and from my car since.
I hate summer.