Saying the thing few dare to admit this time of year

I don’t like fall. Or autumn. Or whatever you want to call it.

I don’t like it.

You, who are giddy about chillier temperatures, start of football, changing leaves.

You, who get goosies just thinking about putting on that first turtleneck.

You, who feel like slipping into boots instead of flip flops is like reuniting with an old friend.

Uh, yeah. I’m not one of you.

I will admit there is something to look forward to in the fall. Making my grandmother’s sweet potato casserole at Thanksgiving.

Okay. I’m done.

Here’s the deal: You simply lose me at chillier temperatures.

I am in full-fledged love with warm summer days.

Often in July, I’ll hear the lead story on news, “The city swelters through another blistering heat wave!”

This is always news to me, because while the rest of the town is apparently melting a communal hot flash, I just think what a wonderful day it was.

Warm summer nights are even better.

I grew up in California, where even the hottest day leads to a marine coolness coming on shore at night and the necessary sweatshirt.

Where I live now, it can easily stay in the 80s well into the evening.

Tank tops under the full moon.

That’s my kind of high fashion.

So while members of my own family get giddy with the changing seasons and oncoming cooler temps, I start to feel a slight panic attack.

Why don’t you, Fall Lover, realize that a dip into the 60s is simply a gateway drug to what’s coming?

Snow, ice and short dark days.

Ugh.

It’s enough to make me want to burrow in my flannel jammies, sheepskin slippers, down comforter and electric blanket.

Quite the image, I know. (As my mother used to say, “And you wonder why you’re single?”)

Back to my already shivering, presently married self.

I am prejudiced against certain seasons.

I rank them:

Summer is my best friend because heat is like a big hug.

Spring is a distant second. Beautiful, hopeful as to what’s coming, but can be oh-so-fickle and tricky.

Fall, see above.

Winter. Cruel, unforgiving winter. I am of the belief that snow is something you should visit, not live in. And by visit, I mean like for a delightful ski weekend with a gorgeous Swiss ski instructor named “Sven.” Even that should happen only once every eight years or so.

Judge me if you will, Dear Reader.

Dis-invite my cold, cranky fall self from your Thanksgiving Dinner.

But, know what I know.

That you, yourself, have your own season biases, as well.

And because you are so wonderful about staying in touch with me, I can see my inbox flooding right now with your seasonal rankings.

I’ll read them as soon as my heated keyboard and super sonic space heater thaw my frozen fingers.