I have a very complicated relationship with summer.
I love summer in many ways. However cliche it may sound, I love the sound of lawnmowers and the smell of freshly cut grass, I love the satisfaction of a cold drink on a hot day, I love the feeling of warm sand between your toes, I love the clear blue skies with streaks of white cloud, I love the childish excitement that the ice-cream van brings, I love the calmness of indulging in a book on a lawn chair.
But I hate summer. I hate the warmth that means it’s too hot for a baggy jumper, the warmth that encourages short sleeves to be worn and jeans to be replaced for shorts. I hate the build up to summer, as it gradually becomes warmer through spring and it becomes too hot to wear a coat and scarf outside. I hate that feeling of being exposed. I cannot wear shorts because of my tree trunk legs, I cannot wear short sleeves for the fat of my arms are repulsive and I cannot lose my baggy jumpers for t-shirts that are insufficient to hide my body. I hate the normal individuals who do not hate summer- who can wear shorts and t-shirts, the people who wear bikinis on a beach that only reminds me of how I can never do the same, for fatness and confidence will not let me. Summer is an anxiety filled self conscious disaster and I spend more time longing for the weather to cool down again so I can go back to hiding beneath my jumpers and coats than I do enjoying the sun.
I am not looking forward to summer.