"Are we going to break the record?" my neighbor asked me yesterday morning in the elevator, and it was obvious what record she was talking about. Summer is not even here yet, officially, and we're in the 90s.
A month ago I commiserated with my mechanic about the fast approaching summer. I've always felt sorry for mechanics here, working on hot engines in scorching temperatures. Ben was unfazed. "We'll get our beach back," he said cheerfully. "Summer separates the locals from the tourists."
He gave me a whole new perspective. All winter long we're seen as softies, unable to handle the cold and snow. Summer allows us to show our mettle. (Especially if a few hurricanes blow in.) Every June our status as climatic carpetbaggers flies out the window (heading north with the fair-weather snowbirds). For five months - at least - we cannot be accused of seeking the easy life. No one landing at the airport in August, and stepping outside, would think that we live here because of the weather. In summer we suffer just like the rest of humanity; we join the global community of the uncomfortable.
