I was all set to blog about the weather this morning, and then I read that it might get to 30° (86F) this week. (Caveat: "might" is the operative word. Other models suggest that it will only get to 26°, and that's in the Midlands, one spot in England, while the rest of the country will have temperatures in the lower twenties.) So, with the prospect of actual summer weather on its way, I can't exactly succumb to another round of whinging about the weather, can I?
Oh, watch me. It's been unseasonably cold all spring, and unseasonably cool for the past month. My car thermometer reads "59" every time I look at it, leading me to believe it's stuck in the fifties (Fareinheit—my car speaks American). I'm really sick and tired of wearing several layers just to walk the dog.
I remember when I moved here and the first summer, we had several days with highs in the fifties. I thought that was unusual, but my hairdresser told me it was perfectly normal. I dismissed that as British pessimism, but she was right. Summers here can have lovely spells, which is why I tend not to go anywhere during the summer months, determined as I am to eek out every morsel of rare good weather, but these spells are intersperced with weeks of damp, cold, misery.
This chill, this cold damp, is not what I think of when I think "summer." I grew up in the American South, where a cold blast of air conditioning was a welcome thing, where afternoons were for staying indoors and keeping cool anyway you could.
Summers are supposed to be hot. Summers are for wearing shorts and sundresses. These days, when I see someone wearing shorts and sleeveless tops, I feel a stab of jealousy. And beach photos turn me positively green: do you people in warm climates know how lucky you are? (Wisconsin and Minnesota, I'm including you in this.)
I'm starting to really hate Floridians, with their beach parties and bikinis and shimmery tans. I see you all up on Facebook, lounging next to your pools, bobbing your babies in their cute little blowup duckies, wearing sunshades the size of melons. I want a piece of that—the melon, too. It just doesn't get hot enough here for good watermelon. Sigh.
If it does hit 30 on Wednesday—86; that sounds warmer—I'll ransack my drawers looking for the one pair of denim shorts I own, and throw them on while I take the dog for a walk in the hottest part of the day. I'll have to slather on sunscreen, since my limbs haven't been touched by the sun in at least three years. On the other hand, if it's only 23°, I'll engage in more whinging, since I've learned to do that really well.