Fahrenheit 451

My three least favorite words in the English language are hazy, hot, and humid—which sucks for me since it’s been about a zillion degrees here in Boston since Saturday. It may not technically be summer yet, but outside it feels like the Inferno. I hate it.

Truth is, I don’t really like summer. It is something to be endured, not enjoyed. Maybe it’s my morlock-like alabaster skin tone. Maybe it’s all that British blood running through my veins. Or maybe I just prefer not to roast like a stuck pig whenever I set foot outside. Whatever the reason, I hate the heat. Give me a cold, gray, rainy day any time. 

You need to know this in order to appreciate the magnitude of my martyrdom this past weekend when I agreed to go to the beach with Penny and Ethan. And here’s my dirty little secret: I didn’t hate it. That’s a long way from liking it, I’ll grant you, but anything that makes Penny and Ethan happy is okay in my book.