Dear summer … I’m breaking up with you. (jk)
Summer: there are two kinds of people in this world: those who live for summer, swimsuits and suntans and those who wilt when the temps rise about 70 degrees.
I’m a wilter.
Fifteen long, hot, there’s-only-one-season-year-round-never-ending Florida summers, followed by a decade of hot flashes made this rose droop. At my age, shorts and tank tops are out of the question and can we please not discuss the trauma of trying on bathing suits?
I honestly began to dread summer to the point that depression would set in the higher the temperature climbed. Claustrophobia. I got S.A.D. starting in March. But guess what?
Not anymore.
