We often say in this house that you're allowed to complain about one type of weather. If you hate the cold, winter is your time to whine ceaselessly about the temperature (ALL annoying D.J.s on the radio, I'm looking at you). If the snow gets you down, feel free to make your displeasure known on those days when you can't step outside without sinking in up to your ankles.
But the rest of the time, you have to hold your tongue. Because no one wants to hear the weather-whines on repeat.
Now is my time to whine.
It was 93 degrees yesterday at 4 p.m. The only saving grace was that the low pressure hadn't moved in yet, so at least it was still dry and clear.
But the low pressure arrived last night, the temperatures are going to be well into the eighties today, and that means nothing but prickly sweat and misery all day until the blessed relief of a shower when the children go to bed. Thirteen hours from now.
I despise heat and humidity. Hate hate hate hate.
What's your season for weather whining?
Edited to add: This afternoon, while sitting at the table eating peanuts, Cubby slumped down in his chair and announced, "Mom, I'm stunned by this heat."
Me too, son. Me too.