Fall was always my favorite season, and the blustery early part of spring, for summer and I have never been merry playmates. Heat fells me. It's mind-altering.
When I moved to Los Angeles in 1975, as part of The Manhattan Transfer's transfer from the east to the west coast, I found the bright sunny days easier to tolerate, because it was rarely as humid out there. And when we played in Las Vegas, that big old sauna, I found a kind of heat I liked. Because, of course (all together now!), it's a dry heat, where stepping into a shaded spot makes a real difference in the temperature, and where the nights are cool.
In the Bronx today, as I am writing, there is no dry heat. It is 97° F (about 36°C), but at around 40% humidity, it supposedly feels like 105° (40.5°). I'd say that's about right. Humidity will drop today as the temperature continues to climb, so that around teatime, when the thermometer says 100° it will really feel like…100°.
About ten years ago, I went south to St. Petersburg, FL, on the occasion of my grandmother's birthday. She was a Leo, and that birthday was in the first week of August. It was hot. Molten. And, not content with Florida heat, I also visited a friend in Lafayette, LA. I have never lived in the south, but as a visitor I learned quickly (the only quick thing I did) to move slowly. Taking time to smell the roses is built into the climate, and moving slowly allowed me to receive and appreciate the courtesies that are extended there and seem to come as naturally as breathing. I was "ma'amed" and "honey'd" everywhere I went, and I never felt so welcome anywhere. Once back in the north, I was told, "that's all superficial!". I didn't agree. But so what if it was? It felt sweet and delicious, and as cooling as a breeze lifting your hair off the back of your neck.
The breeze that I am feeling now from the mighty Vornado fan is admirable, but it just ain't the same.