Here we are, at the end of another summer — at least symbolically, if not officially — and I couldn’t be happier.

Hating summer, as I do, is an unpopular opinion. When I tell people, they refuse to accept it. They try to convince me to come with them to their favorite beach. They tell me about a secret swimming hole. They promise to make me the greatest Aperol spritz of my life. They tell me why they love summer.

My hate is prosaic (August heat is what the inside of a cat’s mouth must feel like), my hate is vain (my knees have started to look like two old jack-o’-lanterns, so shorts are out), my hate is contradictory (I love pools so much).

But the main reason I hate summer is because I’m not allowed to.

Summer’s elevator pitch is that it’s the one season per year when we can relax and do what we want. But there’s a rigidity to how we go about it that undermines the whole premise. The pursuit of summer fun can feel so oppressive.