I have a confession to make; I’m somewhat summer phobic. Summer is everyone’s favourite month. If it were a person, it would be the life of the party. If it were a song, it would be number 1 in the charts. For someone like me, who doesn’t really listen to the charts and doesn’t party that often, constantly choosing to be controversial just for the sake of it, there’s plenty about summer that doesn’t sit well with me.
My body tries to fight summer in every way possible, and this began way back in the early 2000’s as a child. Being a child of ginger descent, meant I was a walking reflective target for the sun. That thing burned me until I was red, raw, itching and having multiple kind ladies lend me their after sun products in hotel lobbies. This particular incident was after I made the catastrophic decision to not apply any form of SPF to my legs because I was determined that they would, that year, ‘get some colour’. And got some colour they did, just the colour red and not the light shade of brown I was going for.
My body tries to fight the season in many other ways, and it worsens with puberty. After developing bigger breasts, I also developed my hatred for the phenomenon that is: under boob sweat. The amount of picnics, walks and days out where I’ve had to discreetly slip my hand under my top to wipe away the puddle of sweat collecting in the under boob region is countless. Not to mention, the sweat patches on your front, when you're wearing darker fabric that tells everyone walking past, your boobs are, in fact, dripping sweat like milk from a cow. But puberty didn’t stop there, at the tender age of 13, when my chicken legs became chicken fillets, they came with a nice side of purple stretch marks, spreading all the way from my crotch right down to the bottom of my little chicken thighs.
It felt like a lifetime, counting down until the day they would fade to my pasty skin tone and camouflage themselves amongst my blotchiness. I didn’t wear shorts in public or with my friends for so long as a result of this, which meant I was that person that wore jeans throughout all of summer and claimed ‘mans not hot’ when I can tell you now, man was certainly hot. I hated getting my legs out, I hated sitting down with my legs crossed and revealing the tiger stripes, I wanted nothing more than for winter to come back around and for my jeans, joggers, coats and layers to swallow me up.
It’s not just my body that's fought so hard against the people’s favourite season’ but living in the midlands has been the ultimate buzz kill. No sea, no sand, limited access to outdoor pools that don’t cost a £100 gym membership, yes David Lloyds, I’m talking to you. Nothing but pure grass and tarmac to enjoy your sunny day. You’d get so thrilled that sun was finally out after hibernating for months and then you’d be faced with the harsh reality that there’s no real way to enjoy it apart from maybe have a barbeque, sunbathe in your 6ft square garden, eat ice creams from your freezer or, the most popular choice for us brits, day drink in beer gardens until you're hammered, sweating and definitely show it through your peeling makeup or skin stuck T-shirt.
Now I can't talk about the lows of summer without mentioning the cat-calling ,the wolf whistling and general sexual the harassment us lucky ladies, face throughout the hot months. I dread the days of walking to a friend's house in shorts because it's almost 30 degrees outside and frankly I don't want to die of heatstroke, and get beeped and shouted at by passers by in their ford fiestas and blacked out polos. I get shouted at by roadmen on their stolen BMX bikes on the local footpaths. I get shouted at by local punters when you briefly walk past in, dare I say it, a vest top. I get uncomfortable starters that last a minute too long by men twice my age. Anyone would think I’m a conservative politician, being scowled at and receiving abuse by members of the public. But no, I’m just a mere girl in her twenties, with a pair of boobs, legs and a body that hates summer.
So whilst you stock up on your passionfruit martini tinnies, whip out the florals, the dad sandals and Gallagher style sunglasses, applying more of the fast tanning carrot oil and hosting BBQ's in your parents back gardens, please think of me; the summer phobic midlands girl.