Don’t get me wrong: I’m no fan of intense heat. My skin turns pink and peels just thinking about direct sunlight. Worse, I have a naturally ruddy complexion, on top of which sunburn makes me looks like an Oompa Loompa (in the Gene Wilder version). Applying makeup only makes it worse. Then I look like I work in a candy factory AND a strip club.

Days when the temperature goes over 100 degrees are especially fun: my respiratory system takes out ads for travel to Australia, Greenland. Enough’s enough, my lungs insist, narrowing to the size of a straw. The next time you decide to leave the house in this heat, bring your Albuterol, heh, heh, or we’ll be seeing you in the ER.

(I swear my lungs actually speak. In English.)

Still, today marks the third day in a row where the mercury won’t cross 80 degrees, and I find myself mourning the passage of yet another summer. Much as I love fitted blazers and boots, boots, boots, I have a fond spot for sandals. (Socks, see, imply the possibility of snow. Which means guilt. Because there’s no way I’m going outside to shovel. I just feel badly when my fiance has to.) 

There’s a freedom in warm weather. I love being able to run every morning, without fear of slipping on ice. Since I never blow dry my hair, there’s fewer head colds, too. I guess we’ve got a few more hot ones on the docket, but they’re getting fewer and farther between.

Time marches on. Temps drop. For the next 9 months I’ll slow from “run” to “walk” to “trudge.”

My lungs, however, congratulate me on getting through yet another seemingly impossible season.