You think I'm joking ...

... But I really did enjoy the sweltering heat of Washington, DC this summer.

"It took all summer just to thaw me out from last winter," I've quipped to acquaintances during the obligatory campus "OMG! How was your SUMMER?" converstation.

But I still don't feel warmed through. Now the weather's turning chilly again, and every brisk breeze fills me with dread.

There's something about the swampy summer heat that's democratic. I'm sweaty, you're sweaty, we're all sweaty. The speaker of the house is sweaty, and the runny-nosed kid on the corner is sweaty. Everyone's wearing the absolute minimum clothing that decency allows (this is where men in suits get the short end of the stick ... for some reason, the sadistic code of Business Attire requires them to brave 100* days in long sleeves, long pants, AND a suit jacket. At least women get the benefit of short-sleeved blouses and skirts).

The winter is isolating. There are so many layers between you and the next person. No one is out on the street. It's insular. There are so many, many more decisions to make in the morning. How to find pants that match the shirt that match the boots that match the sweater that don't absolutely clash with the coat and the scarf and the hat.

I hate the nauseating smell of winter funk, of sweating inside three layers and a heavy coat.

There's something festive about getting goosebumps when you walk out of a hot day into a frigid grocery store. The cold is exhilarating as you hop through the frozen-foods aisle, rubbing your bare arms. Walking into a stuffy bank from the freezing outdoors just doesn't hold the same appeal. You feel instantly irritated, dragging hats off messy hair and disentangling scarves from purse-straps and coat-lapels.

It's just not the same.