Texas has brought me a new definition of summer. Back home, summer is a time to toughen the soles of your feet, climb rocks in rivers, seek shade under tall pine trees, drink tall glasses of lemonade that leave sweat all over your palm, eat dinner on your screen porch.
This is not a Texas summer. This could happen in a Texas spring or Texas fall and most of the way through a Texas winter but summer sends you running inside. Rocks burn your feet, trees are short and ice cold drinks turn hot before they reach your lips.
I see the bright sun calling me, beckoning. It wants me to come outside, to fry in its glory. But instead I stay inside, throwing money at my air conditioner. It chews up hundreds of dollars but offers little comfort.
In North Carolina, if there was shade anywhere near the pool, the water would be too cold to swim in by 6 in the evening. In Texas, no one wants to go in the water unless it’s at least as cold as that shady pool.
There’s no such thing as a sweat-free day.
Summer, I don’t love you anymore.