This morning, as I was preparing my children’s lunches, in an already foul mood, I heard the dreaded words come from the television that stopped me in my tracks.  The words that caused the weather person to smile and rejoice but caused me to utter a gurgling sound that resembled the last breath from an antelope being killed by a lion.  Those words were – 70 degrees.  That can only mean one thing.  Spring.  The season where you can no longer wear sweaters and jeans to hide your winter (or with me permanent) bulges.  The season where I start to get uncomfortably warm. The precursor to the season that mimics entering the bowels of Hell.  The season that tests to see if you can stand being in Hell, which apparently I cannot so I am good.

I know I am in the minority to feel this way but I despise warm temperatures.  Warm meaning anything above 65 degrees and I lose my tolerance.  I am happy as a clam when it’s around 50 degrees.  Side note, why are clams happy anyway?  Probably because they are in cold water, see, I must not be the only one?  I know I am the sexy kind of hot (sarcasm) but I must also be very hot blooded because I am never cold.  To me it never really becomes jacket wearing weather until it’s below 35 degrees and that is only if I will be standing outside, never to just drive somewhere.  Jacket wearing in the car is when it gets down below 0.  Anything above 70 degrees to me feels like I am taking a Zumba class on the Equator.  The only thing that gets cold with me is my mood when I get hot.  It even scares me, it’s that bad.  Like Monty Python says “run away, run away”.