I'm impatient for summer.
There are many reasons, but the main reason is that for the first time in over a decade, I'm cold. (Menopause is not for sissies.) I'm cold, and I'm tired of being cold. I'm tired of having to warm up my car in the morning, I'm tired of turning on the heat in my home, and I'm tired of standing under boiling hot showers to ease the ice that has settled deep into my bones. I'm tired of wearing socks with my shoes. I am tired of shoes, period.
Oh, I can see summer. It's all along the beaches and it's creeping into the marinas that are slowly waking back to life. It's not here yet, but the air is full of summer. Low tide's stench seeps into the car because the windows are cracked wide (while the car's heat blasts on my feet), and the aroma reminds me that soon, very soon, perhaps not soon enough, I will be sitting in a canvas beach chair, book spread open, watching the waves hit the sand and hiding my snacks from aggressive seagulls.
I hope the summer lingers for as long as it seems to be taking to get here.
It's a short but wonderful season up here. I know that when I retire I can and will drive or fly or teleport myself to any beach I want to at any time so that I can have summer at a moment's notice. Of course, then I will complain about missing the snow and how those first flakes are magical and how amazing it is to be inside while a storm rages outside, trapping us all under piles of whiteness.
For now, though, I am impatient for summer, and I'll count the days until it finally arrives.
