I love summer. Hot and dry or wet, I love it. Baked, steamed, I feel alive and rejuvinated and it is MINE. I love the feeling of my skin tightening up in the sun and god, I miss the sensation of living at 4K ft and its immediacy. Instant satisfaction, even if it is 12 out.

I totally do get people who don't, via reversal of senses. A friend of mine absolutely can't cope. Heat makes her pass out. We joke that it is a minor miracle we stay friends: she hibernates in the heat, me, in the cold.

I don't understand people who haven't heard "Sad But True" by Metallica, myself.

I may have heard it. I don't necessarily remember the title or lyrics. (see previously admitted faults.)

I'd be happy in the land of eternal autumn.

Which is the beauty of a Seattle summer--it's like the best part of autumn in the rest of the country. Only at midsummer the days are like 16 hours long, and it's still twilight when you leave the ballpark at 10:00.

WHY AM I ALWAYS SERIAL POSTING?

MAKE IT STOP. POST MORE!

OKAY!!

Europeans don't heat their houses nearly as much, either. They think American houses are insanely overheated.

As well as richness, you're GENETICALLY PROGRAMMED to know more Metallica than I do.

Puh-leeeze. You know I don't go in for the guitar music.

Okay, okay, Sara. I like summer. Summer, summer, summer. No spring, no fall, no winter except in pictures.

Early sunlight, longer days, sun from above, heat, tank tops and open toes.

You know I don't go in for the guitar music.

But you're a cowgirl, baby.

Europeans don't heat their houses nearly as much, either. They think American houses are insanely overheated.

I believe it. My winter in England was actually one of the warmest I'd experienced since leaving Alabama--outside. Inside, the way my hostess kept the thermostat, I regularly slept under three blankets and wore a fleece-lined jacket over a sweater and turtleneck.