Summer gets way too much credit. Every year people act like it’s some magical season where life suddenly becomes a beach commercial. Meanwhile, the rest of us are standing in a parking lot that’s somehow hotter than the surface of the sun, sweating through a shirt before breakfast, and wondering why the air itself feels angry. Then winter shows up six months later like summer’s equally obnoxious cousin, freezing everything solid just to prove it can. Humanity somehow decided these are the “fun” seasons. I remain unconvinced.

If I had to pick my favorite thing about summer, it’d be… absolutely nothing. That’s not me trying to be edgy. It’s just an honest assessment after enough years of ninety-degree days, humidity you could drink with a straw, mosquitoes that think I’m an all-you-can-eat buffet, and electric bills that require a small bank loan. Summer isn’t relaxing. It’s survival with sunscreen. Winter isn’t much better either. Swap sweat for ice, lawn mowing for snow shoveling, and you’re still stuck dealing with weather that’s actively trying to make you miserable.

Spring and fall are where life actually makes sense. Spring smells like everything is getting a second chance after months of gray skies and frozen fingers. Fall brings cool mornings, hoodie weather, open windows, football, and the feeling that you can actually exist outside without melting or turning into a human popsicle. You don’t have to fight the weather just to take a walk or run errands. Nature finally quits showing off and settles into something reasonable. It’s almost like the planet accidentally found the thermostat humans have been looking for since the beginning of time.

So while everyone else is counting down to summer vacation or praying for the first snowfall, I’ll be waiting for April and October. Give me crisp air, changing leaves, blooming trees, and temperatures that don’t feel like a personal attack. The older I get, the less interested I am in weather extremes. I’ve reached the point where “comfortable” is the most exciting forecast imaginable, and frankly, that’s a hill I’m perfectly happy to die on.