For the past few weeks, in my speech and writing alike, my coworkers and bosses continually have had to correct my use of the word “summer.”

Sitting in the newsroom several weeks ago after reading yet another story in which I’d referred to summertime, I heard Res Spears, one of my editors, call from his office, “Leila, what season is it?”

To which I answered, “Technically, spring.”

“When does summer begin?” he asked.

“June 21,” I responded.

This conversation was followed by him asking me what the longest day of the year is – also June 21, sometimes known as summer solstice. And then we covered the shortest day of the year – the winter solstice, which, of course, falls on Dec. 21.

Just to be sure there were no misunderstandings, we then reviewed the start dates for both spring and fall.

Not that I undervalue the importance of knowing what season we’re in and appreciate my coworkers’ keeping me from looking like a fool in print, but I am ecstatic that summer is now here and I can call it what the temperature feels like.

Truth be told, I knew in my mind what the calendar said about the matter, but the thermometer read summer – and was I ready for summer a long time ago.

I was over the winter weather and the springtime rain.

Being born and raised at the beach and under California sun, I am a summertime girl. I love sunshine, sunglasses and sun dresses. I’d probably love a sunfish, if I ever met one.

So, when the thermometer began to register high 80s and low 90s, I was ecstatic. It was summer to me.

But the people reminding me that it was still only spring knew that “summer” hadn’t really set in.

And then it did.

The interior of my car scorched me when I got inside.

My water intake increased dramatically.

I developed an aversion to hot foods and drinks — with the exception of coffee, without which I would shrivel up and die.

I felt like my skin would literally melt off whenever I went for a run, and I couldn’t leave anything in my car for fear it would melt.

I left a banana with just a tint of green in the inside of my car one day, and when I returned hours later the entire thing had turned brown.

I feel like every time I walk outside it’s into a rain cloud.

As excited as I was for summer to come, I’m afraid I’m not going to love summer anymore.

I very well may melt, by the time fall rolls around.

With any luck, I can start prematurely talking about fall, as I did summer, and it will come early, too.

We can only cross our fingers.