Seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is almost exclusively tied to winter, when days are dark, short, and cold. Though rates vary greatly by geography, the vast majority of people who have SAD experience it in winter, according to researchers.
Given that I get blue in the summertime, I'm in the minority.
With each Memorial Day, a sense of doom descends on me.
“Soon I’ll have to surrender to the horrors of the heat,” I think. “Again.”
Clothing is responsible for much of my disdain for summer. I firmly believe that shorts and sleeveless tops look good only in catalogs. But, frankly, nothing beats the horror of swim suit shopping — except maybe wearing one in public. Do I have to shave? Paint my toenails pink? Pretend I’m unbothered by all that exposed skin?
You see, in summer my skin turns blotchy and red, while my hair is rendered limp and lifeless. None of this is helped by the laborious sunscreen-application process I must endure to protect my fair skin from burning.
Finally, there’s the crippling power of summertime FOMO. I imagine everyone splashing in lakes or oceans, or joyfully jumping in swimming pools, while I’m stuck at home seeking relief with a cold shower.
Of course, it’s not all hot flashes and SPF woes. I do enjoy summer’s delicious seasonal produce — like peaches, corn on the cob, watermelon, and blueberries. Their sweetness almost compensates for my sour summer mood. Almost, but not quite.
When the weather is humid and the days are long, I don't sleep well. My anxiety levels soar and my appetite plummets (though I don’t typically lose weight). My circadian rhythm falls way out of whack, thanks to all that extra sunlight, and I find myself hiding indoors, near the air conditioner, with the lights dimmed.
My ancestors came from northern Scotland, which explains a lot about my reactions to Brooklyn in August.
I grew up in a house where the antidote to a winter draft was an extra wool sweater (my mother never let us touch the thermostat). Maybe this is why my favorite season is fall, when the crisp cool air tells me it’s time to slip on a turtleneck and find some apples to pick. I revel in winter, too, when snow storms and wind chills give me the perfect excuse to hunker down at home with a good book and a hot mug of tea.
As an adolescent, I envied girls who seemed to come alive in summer. They had that sun-kissed, healthy glow. They tanned easily and looked good in bikinis. That wasn’t me — and it probably never will be. I’ve never owned a bikini in my life.
But I do have a collection of generous beach coverups, just in case I score an invitation to hang out by someone’s pool, waiting for the first leaf to fall.
