Florida is a beautiful place to live—provided you never make the mistake of going outside.
People in other parts of the country talk about summer as if it is some magical season filled with cookouts, afternoons on the porch, and leisurely walks through the neighborhood. In Florida, summer is when opening the front door feels like opening a dishwasher halfway through the drying cycle.
The temperature is bad enough, but the humidity is what really finishes the job. The air does not simply surround you. It climbs onto your back and demands a ride. Within thirty seconds of stepping outside, your shirt is stuck to you, your glasses have fogged up, and you are reconsidering every decision that brought you to this moment.
Want to work in the yard? Better start before sunrise. Want to sit on the patio? Enjoy being slowly steamed while mosquitoes remove whatever blood the heat has not already cooked. Want to walk from the house to the car? Congratulations—you now need another shower.
Even the swimming pool eventually becomes useless. By late summer, it feels less like a refreshing escape and more like climbing into a large outdoor bathtub shared with insects.
Then someone from up north inevitably says, “But at least you don’t have to shovel snow.”
That is true. Instead, we spend half the year sprinting between air-conditioned buildings like astronauts moving between life-support systems.
I love Florida. I really do. But there are several months when the entire state feels like God left the oven door open and walked away.