I hate summer.

There, I said it.

While everyone else is gearing up for outdoor music festivals and camping and afternoons at the beach, I’m over here with a summer advent calendar, counting down to Labor Day.

Cute maxi dress, but omg how do you handle your sweaty thighs adhered together like blue mounting putty (shout out to bike shorts under dresses)?

The Boundary Waters is great, expect for the bugs.

Camping would be fun, except for the mosquitos that leave giant welts all over my body, including the palms of my hands. What kind of sociopathic insect sucks blood from the palm of a hand? And eff the beach. I hate sand in my shoes, sand in my bag, sand in my crack, gross seagulls and sea water. Also sitting on a towel at the beach is quite uncomfortable, and laying on my stomach makes my back hurt.

Laying on the beach feels great! For about five minutes.

Give me shade and a comfortable lounge chair by a pool (with a breeze, please), or give me death.

I used to joke that I have reverse SAD, or Seasonal Affective Disorder. Typically, SAD happens to people in the winter, when a lack of adequate sunlight causes depression. Turns out, Summer SAD is real!

If you clicked on that link to a NYT article and hit the paywall, here’s the gist:

When asked by doctors and researchers, people with summer seasonal affective disorder usually say that what bothers them most is the heat and humidity. Each person’s exact pattern may differ… but the disorder returns regularly. Still, even the researchers who study summer SAD said there are other uncertainties around it… Studies suggest that some of the same compounds in the body that help regulate mood, such as norepinephrine, serotonin and dopamine, have also been linked to regulating body temperature.

As it turns out, it is the heat AND the humidity! And it is making me depressed. The trickle of sweat running between my boobs, sticky bare legs adhering to chairs, my sweaty itchy scalp, feeling forced to put my hair up 24/7 in order to shake the sensation that I’m wearing a scarf on a 97 degree day… well, it makes me want to unzip my skin and walk around in my skeleton. My patience disappears, I yell at everyone, I am irritable and it’s not that easy-breezy summer feeling everyone else seems to have going on. Sometimes I just feel so hot, sweaty and trapped that the I just want the day to be over so I can sleep in a cool, dark room.

To compound the issue, there’s the pressure to love summer.

This is not a picture of me.

I come from a family of summer lovers.

My dad’s uncle built a summer resort in northern Minnesota circa 1950. Our family still visits every summer, fishing, swimming, skiing, singing by the campfire, pontooning. Of course I love so many things about it—traditions, nostalgia, the natural beauty, the people. But it’s just so hot. And are the horse- and deer flies actually trying to murder me? And is it just me, or is swimming in the middle of a lake totally creepy? Plus, I hate seaweed, and the first time I went in the water this summer, our whole family got chiggers.

My favorite people, at my favorite place, during my least favorite season.

My mother is so obsessed with water that, if possible, she would do the opposite of the Little Mermaid and give up her feet in exchange for a tail and seashell bra. Whereas some parents might try to pressure their kids into studying for an algebra test or volunteering at a food pantry to enhance their college applications, my mom spent most of her time and energy trying to get me to take a swim in iron-colored waters of the St. Croix River.

Get in the water, she’d say. It feels so good.

To me, it actually doesn’t, and I’ve spent years feeling ashamed. Between Memorial Day and Labor Day, we Minnesotans must get outside! Wear our swimsuits all day (even though any OBGYN will tell you that’s not good for your lady bits). Eat ice cream, laze on a beach, soak up every bit of vitamin D. Any second of a sunny day that is wasted indoors is a moral failing.

Ugh, winter. Are you here yet?

I want to enjoy summer on my own terms. For me, that means turning on the air conditioning as soon as it’s over 78 degrees. Walking the dog before 9am so we both don’t die of heat stroke. Not feeling shame for wanting to sit on a breezy three-season porch, out of the sun, reading a book for hours on end. And maybe going swimming a few times if and when I feel like it. Preferably in a pool.

…. can only happen in a place where it’s dry and 76 degrees.

I’ve always felt embarrassed about my lack of enthusiasm for summer. But I love LOVE LOVE fall. And winter! I like the great outdoors, provided I am not feeling suffocated by them. Oh summer, I want to love you. Can we agree to keep that thermostat between 74-82 degrees with minimal humidity, with an occasional thunderstorm? But no day at the beach will ever sound as good as a one by a roaring fire, drinking a coffee and reading a book while some chili cooks on the stove. That’s just who I am.

And since I’m out here waving my no-fun freak flag, here’s a few more fun things I don’t like.

Chipotle
No matter what you order— burritos, tacos, bowls, salads, everything taste the same. Just like Subway. Why?

Concerts
Unless I am super into the band (like this time), I don’t much enjoy packing into a sweaty, germy venue. I’m too short to see jack. And going to the bathroom is impossible. Plus, too many people breathing their hot breath on my neck. Also, music festivals! The dust (or, god forbid, mud puddles). Port-o-potties. $12 beers. Bohemian festival wear. I like to listen to music in my car, like the wet blanket I am.

Lollapalooza, ten years ago. The last time I went to an outdoor music festival. I threw my shoes away the moment I got home.

Billie Eilish
I want to love her, and I think in many ways she is admirable for how she’s handling her rise to superstardom. But her whispery croak voice causes a visceral reaction in my ears. They get almost, I don’t know, itchy? Am I the only one?

Not wearing a bra.
You know how some people can’t wait to thread their bra through a shirt sleeve the minute the five o’clock horn toots? Nope. I want to contain these suckers, cradling them in a soft fabric so they can comfortably hammock under my shirt. Jugs just floppin around under my shirt? No thank you! Also, OMG boob sweat is not for me. I just can’t with the boob skin touching the under boob skin, creating a sticky perspiration situation. Are you seeing a pattern here?

So… are you a Summer SAD person too? I see you. I am you. And woo-hoo it’s almost Labor Day.

PS Tell me all the ways your aren’t fun.