It's been unnaturally cool here right up until this week -- so much so that last weekend the two afternoons we spent at the pool involved a little shivering, and none of us had the gumption to try the lake. I remember visiting San Diego a few times and thinking how nice the weather always is there, day after day after day. And then Kansas City randomly had day after day after day of seventy degrees. Surely, we thought, they would stop after Memorial Day. Nope. Still seventy degrees, beautiful.

Surely, we thought, not into June? 

SEVENTY SEVENTY SEVENTY SEVENTY

I realized I am too hot-blooded for seventy degrees in summer. I adore you, seventy degrees, in any other season of the year, but I like summer weather to be eight-five or above on the weekends so I can get in the water without shivering, lie on my towel and feel the water evaporating off me in the sunshine, walk inside a movie theater and catch my breath at the temperature drop. These things mean summer to me.

I was really starting to worry until this week. My husband is out of town for work and my mom came down for a visit. She took my daughter after dinner on Tuesday and gave me a pass to go write. I took my printed-out draft and my notebook down to a local pub and sat out on the deck for two hours, and the people I saw were wearing clothes I expect to see in June: tank tops, shorts, sundresses. The air still held the days' heat even after the sun set. When I walked into my house, I felt the air conditioning hit my arms. 

Thank God it's back to normal.