Bring on the Heat
Laura Finney
10/11/2026
Give me the humidity. Give me the heat. Give me the hair so frizzy I look like a chia pet by 7am. I love it all. I was born to live on the equator. My husband has joked that my epitaph will read “I don’t know where I’m going, but I hope it’s warm.” He ain’t wrong.
Here’s the problem. I split my time between Martha’s Vineyard and Maryland and the last I checked; they are both playing host to all four seasons. This means, that there is an inevitability to the arrival of winter. And for reasons known only to my slightly unhinged nervous system, winter is something I start to dread in August.
It isn’t intentional. One morning, somewhere in the warmth of August, I wake up with the realization that fall is sniffing at the door. And as we all know, fall is just the gateway drug to winter … and cold.
I’m still buying sunscreen but now I’m fighting my way past Halloween decorations. It starts to feel as if I’m battling for an extension to summer while everyone else is rushing with glee into sweater weather.
To the outside world, I may appear to be moving into fall. In reality, I’m clinging to my beach chair as though it can anchor me to summer while the rest of you are swept away in a funnel cloud of fleece and pumpkin spice.
Living and working in a summer resort means that eventually everyone else goes home. I’m still walking the dog around the loop, but fewer and fewer friends join in until eventually it’s just the two of us. And sometimes it feels like even he’s trying to peel off.
There is a roaring silence to the early days of fall in a summer community. We pass the same piers and the same houses but gone are the sounds of distant laughter and screen doors slamming. The curtains are drawn for the season. The play has closed but no one took down the set.
Somewhere around October, I head back to Maryland, where I can usually squeeze a few more days of heat out of the year. The change of scenery, the slight bump in temperature and the return to my people ease my seasonal anxiety a smackerel. I can do this, I tell myself. With all the confidence of a woman who has checked the forecast for the next three days and conveniently ignored the next five months.
And if you’re wondering why I didn’t move south decades ago – as I ask myself daily – the answer lies somewhere between family, jobs, inertia and indecision. Basically, life. Apparently, relocating to the equator requires more than announcing that you’d be happier there.
And life keeps rolling along, regardless of my temperature preferences. Eventually I get into the swing of the next season. I build a fire. I decorate a pumpkin. I tell myself that wool isn’t unbearably itchy.
Given my August angst of the impending fall, you’d think that staring down the barrel of December would be exponentially worse. But apparently, winter foresaw this problem and paired up with a crackerjack marketing team to ease us into the pit of despair with twinkle lights, presents and theme music.
Between the flattering glow, the delicious anticipation of something around the corner and an endless parade of holiday parties, I lose track of what’s happening. I’m putting things on the calendar. Looking forward to them, even. Winter is slipping in while I’m distracted, like someone quietly stealing the art while I admire the chandelier.
Whoever scheduled Christmas failed to consider the rest of winter. Put it at the end of February and we could spend those freezing months being festive, with something to look forward to. Instead, I wake up on January 1st with a tree to take down and what feels like a decade of cold weather ahead.
Fortunately, our oil-heated house has less of a thermostat and more of an on/off switch. It is either slightly toastier than hell itself or we have neglected to turn on the heat. Obviously, I favor the former.
But occasionally one does have to leave the sauna. The dog still needs to go out. We put on all of our clothing, and I top mine off with my long black down coat and balaclava, achieving the sleek silhouette of the Michelin man dressed like a ninja. Meanwhile, the dog is sporting a rather snappy tartan jacket – which he hates. He is a deerstalker and pipe away from being Sherlock Holmes with fur. Together, we venture out to investigate why the heck we live here.
And so the season stretches on, providing my own contribution to Einstein’s theory of relativity: somehow, the months with the shortest days take the longest to end. February has twenty-eight days, approximately seventy-three of which fall in February. And occasionally they even throw in an extra day because, you know, who doesn’t need more winter.
Then, just when I’ve begun to suspect that February has acquired March in a hostile takeover, we get a warm day. An actual warm day. I unzip my coat. My dog goes out naked. It is practically balmy.
And I fall for it … every … single … time. Despite decades of evidence, one afternoon above fifty degrees and I’m putting away my winter clothing. Two days later, I’m scraping ice off my windshield. Apparently, that was a free trial of spring and I neglected to subscribe.
But then something blooms. The days get longer. Another warm afternoon arrives, and hope creeps back in, wearing entirely inappropriate footwear.
We enter the portion of the year when getting dressed requires several changes of clothing in the course of the day. I leave the house dressed for February, spend lunch sweating through July and return home in a November wind. There’s a down coat and a pair of shorts in my car. Both have been necessary within the same twenty four hours.
Still, I can feel it coming. Somewhere around the bend is the first day when the warmth actually stays. The peepers return with their odd little chorus, assuring us that we have arrived solidly in spring.
Excitement burbles up in my slowly thawing soul. I made it. Much like the pioneers, I survived another winter. Unlike the pioneers, I did so with central heating, indoor plumbing, high-tech outerwear, copious amounts of vodka and the occasional trip to South Florida. But hardship is relative.
And once again, as we roll into June, I come back to life. This time, I promise myself, I will make a plan before the leaves start to fall. This time, I won’t let indecision and inertia keep me from the happiness of oppressive heat.
I don’t know where I’m going, but it’s going to be warm!