I am not a summer person. Not only that, but I wince every time someone describes sunshine and high temperatures as “good weather.” To me, good weather is darkness and coolness. And the best weather is a thunderstorm. But I am hesitant to share this, lest I come off as a joykill or a wannabe punk.
When I lived in Georgia (almost 10 years), I struggled to find anything to like about summer. The brightness gave me a migraine. I didn’t like the heat or humidity. Yet the air conditioning felt nothing like a natural breeze. My apartment was my refuge. But I still felt a sense of alienation when I heard the sounds of the streets below. The season soured my mood.
I attribute my reverse seasonal depression to my childhood in South Florida. In the American tropics, seasons do not exist. It’s one endless humid summer. And I don’t recall my time in Florida fondly. My parents fought non-stop. The houses in my neighborhood were owned by retirees and vacant most of the year. So, I had few companions. Even if I had wanted to venture outside, I was constantly warned to avoid the sun because of my family’s history of skin cancer. I associate the Florida weather with these experiences.
Relief came when my father got a new job and relocated us to Oregon. We were there for 2 years before we moved to Michigan to be closer to family. When my parents split, I went with my mother to Atlanta. Two years ago, I headed to Washington solo.
I arrived during the month of November. Many locals apologized that my first impression of the state was such a dark and wet one. Little did they know, I was in heaven. But as summer approached, dread welled up in my stomach again.
I expressed my concern to a guy that I had started seeing. He assured me that summer was different on the West Coast. He had grown up in Chicago and was familiar with the humid purgatory that is East Coast summers. I was still skeptical, but I tried to keep an open mind.
I was pleasantly surprised. Most of the summer was cool and crisp. There were only a few days when we sweated (more due to lack of AC than to unusually high temperatures). But occasional rain showers provided a nice respite. Fruit, like cherries and plums, appeared on trees. Bursts of colors that I didn’t think possible in nature sprouted on shrubs. We biked across bridges, swam in chilly lakes, basked in beer gardens, and picnicked in parks. It was like I was experiencing the season for the first time.
I still revel when fall rolls around and I can comfortably bundle myself in sweaters and cradle a mug of steaming coffee. But I don’t fear summer as much as I once did. I am grateful for the changing seasons. They are a reminder that our environments are not static, nor are we.
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