self-pity

Stifling. Oppressive. Crushing. Tiresome. Our political regime, you ask? Well, maybe that too, but no, I was actually referring to the weather. Yes, no doubt you're already quite weary of my whiny wallowing-in-weather woes, and I promise to TRY not to refer to it again this season, but if you will, please indulge me one more time.

I was thinking of going to a reading tonight. A real, get-up-in-front-of-the-crowd-and-read-your-stuff type of event, but I don't think I will. Partly because I've run out of cash to cover the $5 cover charge, partly because I hate having to read out loud even more than speaking out loud, but mainly because it's too bloody hot and I can't seem to move even an inch out of this heat-induced torpor. And it's a shame really, because the topic on which you're supposed to read out loud tonight—self-pity—is right up my alley. I mean, I know a lot about the topic, experience it more fully and frequently than I care to admit, and if you take the adage "write about what you know" seriously, then I could probably mine this topic to death. In fact, I'm experiencing a sort of self-pity right now just thinking about how I COULD go to this reading if I wasn't too scared, and wasn't too sweaty. And I wouldn't even have to write anything new for the occasion, as I already have the perfect column! Ah well. What I'll do instead is include here what I would have read had I actually gone tonight. The following was first published back in 1996, and even though some of the details have changed (I now live on the second floor instead of the basement), the gist of it hasn't. Nope. A whole decade has not changed my perspective on this, and I imagine that no amount of time ever will.

ON WHY I HATE SUMMER

Yes, you read that correctly. I hate summer. There, I have said the unspeakable. Perhaps even broken one of the last taboos. And at the risk of alienating myself even further, of adding an extra dimension to my already claimed status of possible social misfit, I will say it again. I, unequivocally, HATE summer.

The heat—oh, the heat! Maybe it affects me more because I was born in a country with a fairly moderate climate. I don't know. But I do know that it makes me cranky. Testy. Quarrelsome even. That it increases my whining and complaining proportionately. That it only serves to accentuate and exaggerate any negative character traits I already possess. And as for shaving in summer—well, let's not even go there.

Could it be that while some are afflicted with SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) in winter, I actually get hit with GLAD (heat-Generated Lethargic Affective Disorder) in summer? And would that explain why my already-relaxed-enough Type B personality woefully threatens to degenerate into Type C (which apparently doesn't exist, but in my case damn well should!)?

No, I don't really expect your sympathy or understanding. I simply want to present my point of view. To let you know that the comment, "It's a nice day, isn't it," fills me with despair. That I greet every cloudy day with glee. That if I could, I would stay in my cool basement forever.

So, if you should happen to see me out there (on an emergency errand no doubt), I would advise you to stay out of my way. And to reconsider talking to me. Call me later instead. When I'm back in the basement.

And am I the only one who hates summer? Please, if you know of any other fellow summer sufferers, send them my way. Maybe we can start a support group. Complain amongst ourselves. Develop survival strategies so that we don't take it out on others… too much. Perhaps we can even come up with a term for our particular aversion. How about missumery? Let me know.

There, that column would have been perfect given the topic, don't you think? Snort.