Dawn O Watson/CNBNews Contributor
It’s that time again.
Summer, when kids are outside my window, screaming bloody murder by eight in the morning, continuing until about nine at night. Why are they screaming? Because that’s what kids do. Not my kids, of course. My kids were perfect. At least that’s how I remember it.
Summer, when folks ask me to go to the beach and I’m forced to explain that I don’t need more freckles, nor do I relish the thought of cleaning sand out of my clothing or parts that my clothing covers. And the thought of wearing a bathing suit is enough to up my anti-anxiety meds.
Summer, when my hair is held in a perpetual ponytail because otherwise it explodes into a tangled bird’s nest that makes old Catholics cross themselves.
Summer, when sweat rolls down my sides and blankets the waistband of my shorts causing a rash to develop for which mankind has no cure.
Summer, when cosmetics run off my face and land on my collar, forcing me to wear orange shirts throughout the season. Luckily, they transition well for Halloween.
Summer, when the sidewalks steam and the streets emit the smell of ripe tar, significantly adding to the ambience of heat stroke.
Give me the golden days of autumn, when a chill is in the air, apples are ripe, the smells of pie and bread and casseroles permeate the atmosphere and my dogs are breathing it all in, happily.