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If I may kvetch just a bit, here's a short list of my least favorite summer things:

Wearing a bathing suit. I'm so tired of shimmying into the one suit that fits. And my timing is off. When I was young and sleek the style was a modest one-piece suit that hid a multitude of sins. No thongs, no legs up to there. Bikinis came of age as I did, and they started out polka-dotted and barely provocative (see Annette Funicello, Beach Blanket Bingo). Now you need five times a week at the gym, implants, lipo, youth and good genes. And even then, there's cellulite.

Grooming. Parts of my body that never see the light of day three-quarters of the year have been exposed in all their humble, flawed states for several months now. The time, focus and cost needed to keep things exfoliated, trimmed, non-chipped, waxed, moisturized, and sun-screened are daunting. I never seem to catch up, and long for the time I can hide once again in a natural state.

Heat, Haze, Humidity, Hurricanes. I don't mind a bit of glistening, but not at 3am. On the east coast, in this global warming era, summer starts out like a steam bath and ends like... a steam bath. Definitely not "dry heat." More like a constant low-grade fever. I'm a natural redhead, so I burn and freckle. My favorite color is black and my favorite style is cover up, and I like wearing sweaters and jeans, not sundresses.

I grew up in Miami Beach and many of my August birthdays were spent in hurricane candlelight with the power out. I still worry about Bob or Lester barreling up the coast. And as for thunderstorms, they're fine when I'm cozy in bed -especially if someone is holding me. But they scare me when I'm walking in a preserve, or flying. Lightning once came through my window in Florida and sizzled on the carpet by my bed. It also once hit my car, and I just kept driving with my hair looking like Clay Aiken's.

Reruns. If I see one more old House Hunters, I'll become a granite counter salesperson. What is it about granite and stainless-steel appliances? Cheap, cheesy outdoorsy contests are appalling, and lousy sitcoms were bad enough the first time around. (My summer haven is So You Think You Can Dance, a competition of incredibly talented young dancers and choreographers, and judges with heart.)

Dumb Movies. Why does every summer movie seem to include robots destroying cities or slackers with flatulence (or robots with flatulence)? I like small movies with dialogue that includes three-syllable words. 

BBQs. Raw, charred meat, incinerated S'mores. S'over. And clean up is rough. I prefer a warm oven, the smell of cookies baking and chicken roasting.

Insects. When I was a kid in Florida I once sat down and squashed a palmetto bug, which is a roach on steroids. It sounded like an explosion of plastic wrap. I also once put on a shoe and a scary-looking scorpion with a raised pincer was in the toe. I also do not like flies, mosquitoes, gnats and wasps. I hate killing them but what's the choice when they attack?

Reality bites like summer bugs. Political hoopla will soon morph into meaner, harder news. I guess what I like least, now that I think about it, is that despite the sometimes annoying languor, frivolity and openness of summer, I will start missing it before it's gone.