Letters

I have never enjoyed summer the way most people I know do. I mean, what’s to enjoy? The heat. The humidity. The bugs. The itching. The sweating. Fat old men who think they look fine shirtless.

I don’t need a meteorologist to forecast dew points: my knees sweat at 60 percent, my head at 50 percent, and the AC goes on at 40 percent.

I have never understood the great excitement for summer. Just a glance on TV at a crowded community pool or happy people slipping down a water park slide in the wake of some stranger’s urine makes me squeamish. No, not squeamish: Nauseous.

Let’s start with the beach. Yes, very pretty, but: crowded, sandy, and I have an issue with tiny shrimp cozying in the crotch of my bathing suit. And, yes, sand can be a problem when you’re done with it. While tiny, it clings onto you like leeches (another gross summer pest) after a swim in a lake. Even after you shower, sand will snuggle between your toes and dislodge itself only when you are in bed, creating that “Princess and the Pea” irritation.

Pool parties? Aside from the fact that they are outdoors in the heat and humidity, where I live they are inevitably peopled with pathetic posers.

Dining alfresco? What could be better than a beautiful setting, under the stars, a bottle of excellent wine, people you really want to be with, all sharing exquisite food?

Better? For me, eating inside, for starters. The other people at the table can freely enjoy the company, food and wine, because all of the mosquitoes, spiders and flies are chowing down on my toes, ankles, calves, nape, arms and cheeks … all four.

And, no, I don’t want to spray my body down with sticky chemicals (“oh, no — it’s all natural!”) that inevitably get in my mouth and ruin the wine and the food and … oh, by the way, don’t work.

For years and years, I have suffered through day camp, overnight camp, itching around campfires with stories and s’mores. I have endured summer evenings at amusement parks or outdoor concerts where my lasting take-homes were not the prize stuffed animal or playbills but scabs and welts from voracious little winged predators.

Who would have ever thought that my favorite guests at outdoor evening gatherings would ultimately be bats?

It has taken me 65 years of acquiescing to outdoor events to finally voice this admission, full-throated and without shame: I am done with summer.

When someone creates a me-sized, air-conditioned rolling gerbil bubble, I will happily join you anywhere you like on a hot, hazy humid summer night.

Until then, I’ll see you in October.

Randye Lordon

Springs