Summer has officially arrived.
I know: technically it's still April, but whatever. You go through it enough times, you recognize the turning point--the morning your dogs hesitate before bounding out the door, the afternoon that's a little too warm to be called "comfortable," the day Things Change.
Luckily, the heat doesn't bother me much. Maybe it's genetic predisposition from my Lebanese father, or maybe it's just the fact that I've endured dozens of Southern summers--whatever it is, I understand it and I know how to cope. I know how to walk slower, how to drink more fluids, how to dress lighter, how to remember my handkerchief, how to cling to the shady side of the street, how to plan my day around the noonday sun.
I had a friend once who loved cold weather. He claimed there's nothing better than a roaring fire in the wintertime: it's warm and fuzzy and nurturing. In summer, he argued, comfort relies on the cold blast of air conditioning, which is harsh and unpleasant.
I see it the other way around. When I step onto an icy sidewalk or feel the sharp stab of a gust of Arctic air, I feel threatened, in danger. The summer may be unpleasant at times--stifling and sultry--but never dangerous.
Well, except for the hurricanes. But that's another story.
