Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight. This week's guest is author Christina Edson.

It would seem Christina feels the same way I do about summer.

My alarm clock blasts me with loud, over-exhuberant deejays gossiping over last night’s reality TV drama. Before they could get into who clawed whose eyes out with fake nails, I swiftly whip my arm across and smack the snooze button with practiced precision. It’s the quickest I move in the morning. Hell, it’s often the fastest I move all day. I make a mental note to find another radio station to wake up to and then roll over and sink back into the cool comfort of my mattress.

I take a deep breath, shaking off the remnants of a weird dream involving an ex-boyfriend, a row boat, and sacrificing said ex to the volcano gods. Serves me right to eat Hagen-Daaz right before bed.

The sound of waves crashing into the shore of nearby Lake Huron lull me into a happy morning haze. Then it dawns on me. This is the sound of the end of summer. Rolling white-capped walls of water crash into the shore, stealing warm water away into the dark blue horizon. I roll out of bed with a renewed sense of purpose: enjoy the last few moments of summer to the fullest.

My love affair with this summer has been tepid with few steamy moments, but those annoying deejays assault my ears again and report that it’s ninety-seven percent humidity outside bringing the early morning temperature to over 100 degrees Fahrenheit.

Summer took its Viagara and it’s going to seduce me into a hot sweat.

I can’t wait.

My mojo reinvigorated, I put on my favorite summer dress and wriggle into my strapless bra. The air conditioning blasts cool air into my room. Seriously, who invented strapless bras? I’m assuming it was some clueless man.

I pour homemade iced tea into a travel mug, slide into my favorite pair of flip-flops, and sashay into summer’s warm embrace.

What the hell was I thinking?

Summer isn’t sexy. Summer isn’t seductive. Summer makes you hot, heavy and breathless, but not because of its prowess.

Instantly I break out into a sweat. And not some dainty girl glisten. When I sweat, all my pores are involved. Sweat drips everywhere, including places I didn’t know could sweat. My inner thighs slap, slap, slap together as I walk down the road.

And to make matters worse, my strapless bra seems to have joined an orchestra since I last put it on, happily squeaking and creaking every time I move my arms.

Slap, slap, slap, slap.

Squeak, squeak, creak.

Flip, flop, flip, flop.

Drip, drop.

Pant, pant.

So attractive.

Maybe that seems like the sounds of unbridled passion. But no. That’s just me walking to my car in humidity so thick and so dank it’s like being trapped in someone’s belly button.

Summer is not sexy.

Summer is the cute guy in the nightclub you’re eyeing through the bottom of your gin and tonic tumbler. You stumble home with him and wake up to realize that the hot guy is actually hairy and belches and farts at the same time.

Yup. Summer is Homer Simpson in Henry Cavill’s clothing.

So I’m breaking up with summer. I’ve had it with the chaffed thighs, the squeaky bras and the constant film of greasy smog smothering my skin.

Summer may look good from underneath my down duvet and ten blankets in the middle of February, but I will remember this moment.  Oh yes, I’ll remember this.

And if I don’t, smack me upside the head, will ya?

In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be in the cold pool waiting for fall to arrive.

Me too, Christina...Me too. 

Until the next time...I'll be sweltering in the late August heat.