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Broke Wife, Big City
I hate summer.
There. I said it.
By Aprill Brandon
I know what I’m about to say isn’t going to be very popular. But hey,
you know what? Abraham Lincoln wasn’t universally appreciated for his
views in his lifetime either.
(Although anyone wishing to assassinate me needs to get in line behind
my ex-boyfriends, my ninth-grade English teacher, Kim Kardashian, those
Jehovah Witnesses that came to my door last week, Khloe Kardashian,
Octomom, my former basketball coach, pretty much the rest of the
Kardashians and the entire country of Amsterdam).
OK. Here goes…
I am not a fan of summer.
Oh, screw it. Enough sugarcoating. I downright dislike summer. At
certain points, I even loathe it. And as for August? Well, I want to
sew one of its orifices to another month’s orifice (preferably July’s)
and make them crawl around and do stuff and junk and other mean, evil
things. (Confession: I never actually saw “The Human Centipede”).
And yes, I am well aware that this makes me the sweaty cheese who stood
alone and that I might be the only person ever to list summer as my
least favorite season. But contrary to the disproportionally angry
responses I received on Facebook when I dared to insult this oh-so-holy
season, it is not illegal to hate summer.
And yet, when you dare to say this out loud, people act like you just
punched a baby in the face. And not one of those ugly babies that no
one cares about. One of the super cute ones.
It’s like being a vegetarian in the South. Or a Republican in Portland.
Or a woman in Utah. You constantly have to defend your reasoning for
daring to be this way.
But to that I say, why does everyone love summer anyway? The major
holidays– Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day– are only fun if you
have a boat or a pool or are good friends with someone who owns a boat
or a pool. The rest of us landlubbers just get to look forward to a
plate of charred meat, sweating out all the beer we worked so hard to
chug and trying to prevent our pets from committing suicide in response
to the ceaseless BOOM-BOOMs going on all around them.
And sure, summer is great when you’re young and when apparently based
only on the merit of your immaturity and acne, you have earned the
right to have those three months off. But once that stops, what’s left?
The same stresses you have to deal with in your daily life during all
the other seasons, only now with more body odor that you pretend not to
smell on other people or yourself.
Not to mention the mosquitoes. The tiny, tiny unforgiving summer
wardrobe. The trying to maintain the delicate balance between not
getting skin cancer and not having the skin tone of a corpse. The
constant need to shave my hairy Russian man legs. And seeing people
wearing Crocs unironically.
Now, I thought maybe when I moved back up north my summer issues were
over. Because after living in South Texas, the land of eternal summer,
for five years, everywhere above the Mason-Dixon line seemed like a
breezy, 75 degree, sunny oasis in my heat stroke-destroyed mind.
But HA! No! It’s hot and humid here up here in Yankee land too! In
fact, I haven’t stopped sweating since May!
And so, I maintain my stance. I hate summer.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go scythe off my leg hair and put
on 12 more pounds of deodorant.*
*Sorry, fellas, but I’m already taken.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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