Does anyone hate summer

I hate the pretty trees in the park that blow pollen directly into my sinuses. I hate the flies, mosquitoes, the wasps, and the ants.

I like my coffee hot, my temperatures cold, and my limbs swaddled in at least two layers of fabric. I am, against all logic, someone who just cannot stand a warm summer day—and yes, I know this fact deeply offends you.

So instead, I live my life in Summer Haters Anonymous, hiding my true winter-party alignments until another cold-weather ally quietly reveals themselves. Like, you know that heavy despair you feel when winter arrives? When it gets dark at 4 p. Yeah, I get that in May. Warm weather makes me feel claustrophobic and trapped. But for us, there are no reverse sun lamps cloud lamps?

As soon as spring hits, so does my anxiety, and I spend most of May through August dreading the idea of having to go literally anywhere. I truly believe I am not alone in my extreme dislike for the summer months. While our summer-loving friends are living their best lives, we are the ones left behind, overheated and flustered, nursing sweaty sunburns and rubbing chafe cream on our red raw thighs.

So for those of you out there who also hate summer, I see you. And here are nine things only we know to be true. December, January and February can be a lonely three months for people who hate summer. This is because while all your friends and family love sitting in the sun and soaking up Vitamin D, you prefer a nice, cool shady spot. Being a shade seeker also means packing up and moving whenever the sun moves.

And with sweat comes chafe. Thigh chafe. Underarm chafe. Boob chafe. Under bra chafe. Back of the knees chafe. And the most unforgiving, crotch chafe. Being sweaty, I can deal with. That's what tissues and a desk fan are for. But there is nothing more insidious than sitting in your own damp, stale sweat for your entire day, day after day. Getting ready before work becomes a complete write-off in summer. By the time you arrive at work after a steamy train ride or walking from the bus station, your perfectly dewy, highlighted makeup look that took at least 10 minutes has slid off your face and onto the neck of your t-shirt.

Oh, and don't make me laugh by entertaining the thought that there's any point straightening your hair at home. In summer, that's a task best done at your desk. Then it's off out to treat the world to the sight of their lissom frames, youthful musculature and poreless, naturally lambent skin whose glow seems to reach out and greet the sun as a cousin.

In a further twist of the knife for pallid shut-ins, summer also belongs to the extroverts. The picnics, the barbecues, the festivals. The bloody, bloody festivals. The whole world wants company. You can't move in London for people determinedly enjoying themselves on the filthy, polluted strips of pavement outside dismal eateries that comprise England's attempt at cafe culture.

At least this year it should be mercifully brief.