I know everyone is excited about the arrival of spring in these southern United States. The birds are chirping, the sun is shining, the trees are budding, etc. I am not. I do not like spring. I mean, I don’t necessarily hold anything against spring. I don’t shake my fist at it. But I do not celebrate its arrival.

If spring came, followed by six months of fall, that would be great. I would be all for it. Spring is nice. I get to change out my bed linens, open the windows, wear sandals. But, here, where I live, spring is that brief period between the last hard freeze and the blazing hot fire of a thousand suns, otherwise known as summer.

Summer is the longest season of the year, now, thank you very much climate change. Summer begins sometime in mid-May when we have seen the very last of temperatures below 75F and does not end until mid-October. Summer means I sweat for five months, non-stop. I live with a constant mustache of beaded perspiration on my upper lip. Clothing is minimal. Gripping a steering wheel can cause third degree burns. Legs stick to car seats. Tourists are everywhere. I hate summer. I loathe summer.

My only solace during the summer months is an endless supply of fresh tomatoes and gin and tonics – extra lime. The new few weeks will find me scuttling around town completing as many tasks as possible so I may barricade myself in the house against the coming onslaught. I will stay here, inside, where civilization and air conditioning reign and wait it all out with the patience of Job.