I’ve always been a summer person.
I sparkle and shimmer and shine in June, July and August and love the heat and the water, from pool or ocean.
How I used to look forward to the summer. Summer camp. Skinny-dipping. Getting a deep dark delicious tan. (In the 1980s we did these things.) A plain girl, I felt prettier in the summer. Transformed, I always fell in love in the summer. I married in the summer. My son was born in the summer.
But now, I feel autumn creeping up on me, wrapping her fingers around my throat.
Yesterday, I was waxing nostalgic for the many wonders of summer, a friend informed me that she actually hates summer. That, in fact, it is her least favorite season. I was shocked. Horrified. How could it be? She explained her story to me, and I understand it — but it is a foreign concept to me. I’d like to hear from others.
In which season do you feel the most alive?