An Open Letter to Summertime in AZ

Oh, Summertime, you sneaky devil…

Every May, we in the Arizona Valley beg and plead of you to pass over our fine city and spare us your 5+month hot-breath hover. But, ignoring our overwhelming vote, you always blaze on in, making our cold tap run hot and rendering our ovens as abandoned as our playgrounds.

We don our sunglasses, our wide brim hats, our SPF 50 clothing, and our grin-and-bear-it smiles. We turn into those pestering parents who beg our children to JUST DRINK ALL OF YOUR WATER AND HOLD STILL FOR THIS SUNSCREEN FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.

We invest in remote starters and cooled seats because hoooooly moley bagoley, the cars!

My pool water today? 94 degrees… Yes, really.
But you already knew that, Summertime. Because you did it.

You blow in your monsoons in a feeble attempt to pacify us. “Look!” you exclaim. “Rain! You people adore rain!!” Ohhh but we aren’t fooled. No siree… We see your rain, and we raise you cloud coverage. We want cloud coverage! And not the monsoon-y kind that lasts 45 minutes.

Now, now, now, don’t get us wrong, Summertime: It’s not that you’re an entirely unwelcome guest, per se. We can appreciate a little no school and pool time and ice cream indulgence as well as the next state… It’s just that you SO VERY overstay your welcome. Anyone who comes on Memorial Day and leaves on Halloween without offering to help offset the increase in utilities is just plain rude. And you are one expensive guest!

Plus, you make us do downright crazy things. Tonight, our family took a walk. We couldn’t help ourselves when we felt the blissfully cool 92 degree evening. NINETY-TWO DEGREES meant we WANTED TO BE OUTSIDE and NOT SOPPING WET. What the what?!? It’s like the words lose all meaning!

Crazier than that? I’ll tell you one: Last month after a blissfully cool day trip to Prescott, I told my husband that we should take up camping. Real, live, tent-pitching, fire-building, forest-tinkling camping.

With our 2-year-old.

Now, AZ Summertime: you and I have only been acquainted for 3 summers, so you may not have learned a minor but weighty fact about me:
Rebecca Doesn’t Camp.
It’s just a fact. While indeed a lovely and fun and adventuresome (and humble!) person, Rebecca is more your Sleep-in-a-Bed, Shower-in-the-Morning type.

But these temps? This stir-craziness?

Well……… it drove me to utter the suggestion that we *gulp* CAMP. I even looked at REI.com. (PS, There is some cay-uute camping gear on there!)

**For the record, my husband, knowing all too well his Dearly Beloved, did not take us camping and instead took us to San Diego. Smart man, that one. AZ Summertime, you could learn a thing or two from him.

And so, here we are. We’re getting there, no thanks to you.
Of course… this could all be the over half-way point of pregnancy talking: a factor that is restricting my margarita intake and increasing my crankiness gradient.

Admittedly, though… We do have you to thank for one thing, Summertime:
Our chin-down, because-we-have-to tolerance of you procures within us a love we never knew possible.

For glorious, delicious AZ Wintertime.