I don't know about other parts of the country, but in New England we seem to be skipping spring this year. Last weekend I was still turning on the gas fireplace to take the chill off the downstairs part of my apartment, and this weekend I went upstairs and immediately opened a window because it was positively stifling. Last weekend I was out wearing a fleece and sweats, and this weekend I was wearing a tank all by itself.
Don't get me wrong. Tulips came up, trees bloomed. I've never seen so many flowering trees in all my born days. Every other tree on Long Island seems to have flowers--there are huge flowers that look like magnificent orchids, and teeny flowers that look like orange blossoms, and even little green flowers that look like little tufts of leaf. It's excruciatingly beautiful, and it's hard to remind myself that Brooklyn was so much better.
But I really love spring and fall. And after that winter is probably my favorite season. Summer has got to be my least favorite. It means that I have to go around wearing far too little clothing on my nearly-40-year-old body. It's when I discover that I've totally failed to hit the gym. It's when I acquire a permanent moist sheen over my face that doesn't disappear until...well, until fall. It's when I'm tempted to go swimming...until I remember that a bathing suit is probably my all-time least-favorite article of clothing.
But who knows? Maybe Long Island has some kind of summer that I'm better suited for. After all the flowers it's been bringing me, day in, day out, I'm just about willing to give it the benefit of the doubt.
Who'd have thunk it? Long Island is wearing me down.