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I was so happy when, this week, the weather suddenly turned beautiful after a summer of stifling heat and humidity.

I have fond memories of breezy summer evenings with candles, cards, and wine, and Edith Piaf singing us into the night; or swimming around the pool in the darkness of my parents’ backyard, everyone glowing from the one ever-changing colored light under the water; or, even longer ago, skipping around a campground with summer friends until a boy – too old for me, really – finally kissed me in a dark parking lot.

None of those things could have happened if it had been too hot to enjoy being outside, as it was most of this summer.

When I expressed my readiness for summer to be over sometime around early August, a co-worker looked at me surprised.  She was sad it would be ending soon.  I thought she must be crazy.

That’s not to say the last several months have been horrible.  I’ve had a lot of fun, both indoors and out, but partly because I’ve forced my body to acclimate to being outside, even when it was so hot and humid I was basically swimming from one place to the other.

When the weather broke, I felt this nebulous, yet oppressive weight had been lifted from me along with the heat.

My windows are now open most of the time, and I was delighted, after a night or two, to discover that with an extra blanket on my bed I sleep more comfortably than I have in months.  I can walk whenever I like and not be concerned about arriving dripping in sweat and exhausted.  I’ve dusted off my deck furniture and am already thinking about outdoor fondue.

I’ll take my summer in September.  Better late than never.

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