Where I live, the San Francisco bay area, we do not have real seasons. The comment attributed to Mark Twain about this is rather famous: “The coldest winter I ever saw was the summer I spent in San Francisco.” This hyperbolic sentence makes a good point.
But still, I know it’s summer, even if I can’t believe it. Not because it’s hot, (not!) or because I’m lounging at the pool, (I don’t have one and sunbathing isn’t good for the skin) or because the kids are off from school, (they graduated)— but because the passage of time seems unreal. Time seems to move ever faster, either as a function of aging or having fun. (The latter is a nicer way to think about it.)
Yes, it’s July. There’s no denying it. It’s summer, seriously.