I’m tired of tomatoes, and frankly I’m tired of brainstorming new ideas for preparing them. Furthermore, I’m plain tired of summer.

I’ve checked the boxes required of me for being a card-carrying participant of summer in the South. I’ve submerged my body into warm chlorinated water and also the Gulf of Mexico. I’ve aimlessly stared into the sky with my mouth gaping open, looking at fireworks. I’ve talked of zinnias and humidity and pointed out lightning bugs. I’ve even consumed enough Gatorade to the point that I’ve established my own personal ranking of each flavor. Little did I know my deodorant and Gatorade share common profiles: Glacier Freeze and Cool Blue, to name a couple.

I’m fatigued by summer. The honeymoon is over. At this point, it’s beginning to feel like purgatory. Not much of anything is happening except for horrid air and bright, blinding light. The best of summer is behind us, and the promise of fall is merely a cruel mirage on the distant horizon.

In plain English, walking outside in Mississippi is offensive. Not to mention, if I choose to exit through the front door of my circa 1835 home, I must first tie a strap to a mule and then the door in order to pull it open.

Because why wouldn’t the humidity adhere my door to the frame like some sort of heat-activated Velcro?

Of course, staying indoors is always an option, but I’ve already sold one kidney to pay June’s power bill, so I’m trying to go easy on my AC in July.

Just the other day, I arrived home from work, stepped inside and removed my sweat-drenched shirt. It emitted a suction sound as I peeled it from my body. That’s when I decided the straw had broken the camel’s back. I’d officially had enough. I knew it was inevitable, my disdain for summer, but this was the nail in the coffin. There’s just something unconventional about removing a wet shirt in the absence of a body of water or rain. It’s repugnant and uncivilized, even for me.

Being the garden-variety human that I am, I feel it pertinent to assign blame for my heated disposition. I guess I could start with climate change and factor in my proximity to the equator. For that matter, I could then research my ancestors and discern who was responsible for settling in the Deep South; maybe take up my grudge with them. The latter would most likely result in me standing at a tombstone, in the heat, mind you, while telling the deceased how angry I am for choosing Mississippi as a home. Although a debatable act of disgruntlement, if my behavior were to be called into question, it would then be apropos to blame none other than the heat.

It’s not lost upon me that I could just move if I don’t like it here; therefore, blaming my ancestors is probably unhinged and undoubtedly ineffective. But complaining is far easier than packing boxes, so I’ll just stick around and stick to my grudge.

On the topic of tombstones, I recently made a trip to my father’s gravesite to do a little repair work on his headstone. It sits on a slope that seems to sink over time, therefore causing the base to settle by about 6 inches on one end. It goes without saying that this labor of love was performed in 1,000-degree temperatures, despite my climate discontentment and without a shade tree in sight. I joked afterward that if I had perished due to heatstroke, there surely would’ve been some sort of poetic meaning to it.

I guess the silver lining to death by tombstone repair would’ve been my immediate access to confronting my ancestors for their choice of geographical residency.

It’s far past time we look to our calendars and see a month ending in “er.” I’m longing for something new to complain about. How on earth am I supposed to enjoy sweating while taking out the trash without a point of reference? It’s necessary that I sit on cold aluminum bleachers in 23 layers of clothing with numb toes and fingers, watching my son play soccer in the month of January, in order to truly appreciate summer.

I heard a funny quote recently that said, “We’re human beings, not human doings, so stop doing and just be.” If only it were that easy, to “just be.”

Whether hot, cold, wet or dry, I’m afraid the proverbial thermostat will always need adjusting in our lives. So with that, I leave you a poem I wrote specifically for being human.

That which leaves us dissatisfied, satisfies our delusions
To frolic in grass a hue darker than our own
A curse, and a foregone conclusion

Clay Bowen is a Columbus native who cooked professionally as a chef in fine dining for 12 years and appeared on the third season of Top Chef. He is also a licensed landscape horticulturist. Email him at [email protected].

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