Summer is a despicable season.
Don’t argue with me, I’m right. It’s awful. Awful and dreadful and wretched and vile and I hate it.
If summer was a person, I would stare at it menacingly. If it was a business, I would write a blistering Yelp review, and I’d probably ruin my laptop doing so because my hands would be slimy with sunscreen and bug repellant, which are two additional reasons I loathe summer.
Summer’s one redeeming quality is the Fourth of July, which is great only because explosions are awesome. But now that Independence Day has come and gone, there’s nothing good left of summer — just another two months of misery and blech.
I realize this is a controversial opinion. A majority of Americans have been brainwashed by the Sunshine Industrial Complex, conned into thinking that dining outdoors is a thing sane people should do.
I can already feel the tsunami of angry email coming from humidity enthusiasts who’ll claim that summer is wonderful and tell me how they love to feel the sand (barf) between their toes and hear the crickets chirp through open windows at night.
Years of sniffing citronella has eroded their ability to think logically. It’s quite sad, really.
I grew up in Florida, where the air feels like a belch from a hot alligator 60 percent of the time and the rest of the time it’s raining steam. People mistakenly believe Floridians like warm weather, but we don’t, because all we ever do is go from an air-conditioned house to an air-conditioned car to an air-conditioned strip mall and back again.
The only reason we ever go sailing or sit on beaches sipping tropical drinks is because if we didn’t, Jimmy Buffet’s songs wouldn’t make any sense. He purchased Florida and all its inhabitants back in the late 1970s, so we’re contractually obligated to play the part.
The point is, I spent my youth dealing with year-round summers, making me something of an expert on the subject.
Drawing on that expertise, allow me to explain in vivid and inarguable detail why summer is the fetid meat wedged between the delightful bread of spring and autumn.
For starters, it’s hot, and heat is inherently unpleasant. When you’re baking bread, you don’t stop and think, “Man, I’d love to crawl right up in that oven and sweat it out for a bit.” No, you close the oven door and then run and turn up the air conditioner a bit to chase away that small amount of escaped heat. Then you eat your delicious bread and stay indoors for the rest of the day.
Summer also tends to be humid, unless you live in a sensible place like on top of one of the 14,000-foot-high mountains that make up the Collegiate Peaks in central Colorado. (Humidity is notoriously afraid of heights.)
Humidity does to heat what paprika does to a milkshake made with motor oil — it takes something bad and makes it measurably worse.
The combination of heat and humidity leads to perspiration, and perspiration is the body’s way of telling you you’re doing something stupid. At the first sign of sweat, you should immediately run to the nearest air-conditioned building and demand a refreshing glass of lemonade and a couch.
So what have we established thus far? If it’s summer and you’re unfortunate enough to be outdoors — and it’s worth asking that if the outdoors is so great, why did we invent the indoors? — you are already hot and sweaty.
What could make that worse? Bugs!
Millions and millions of bugs, many of which are eager to bite you or sit on the food that you’ve been conned into eating outdoors. Now you’re hot and sweaty and itchy and your hamburger has been trod on by an insect with questionable hygiene. And there’s some knucklehead at the table next to you grinning and sweating and swatting flies and saying, “Oh, man, don’t you just love summer!”
Which brings us to one of the absolute worst parts of summertime: people. Specifically, people who love summer, although people in general can be quite wretched, largely because of all the aforementioned hotness and sweatiness.
But summer aficionados? Hoo boy, they’re the prunes atop the season’s melted mess of a sundae.
They want all their meals eaten outside, as if fly footprints are a desirable garnish. They love to talk about all the summer things they’ve done, and have yet to do. They walk around with toes exposed, as if anyone wants to see that mess of foot fingers.
They look down their noses at air conditioning, reek of pool chlorine and can often be found on park benches or sidewalks, faces lifted toward the sun, eyes closed and gleeful, smiling like cultists. Sweaty cultists. Cultists you know are going to ask you to their barbecue this weekend in the yard behind their un-airconditioned home.
No thanks, weirdos. I’ll be spending my summer indoors, as God intended.
At least until my wife tells me I have to eat outside with the rest of the family. I forgot to mention I married a Midwestern summer weirdo.
She’s the only one I’ll go outside for this time of year. Well, her and Jimmy Buffet. In both cases, I’m contractually obligated.
Man, summer is the worst.