Not a misspelling. It’s a neologism I’ve coined to describe the paradoxical combination of restlessness and boredom that can afflict me deep in the doldrums of summer. One characteristic is the feeling that although I very much don’t want to be outside doing something, I feel that I ought to want to. Today, when the temperature is going to 107 in Portland, restledom hit me earlier than its usual midafternoon onset.

Summer has always been my least favorite time of year. I don’t like hot weather. Day after day of glaring sunshine oppresses me. It’s partly a mood thing–the opposite, less common version of Seasonal Affective Disorder–and partly medical. Years ago I had a couple of minor skin cancers excised and would prefer not to have more of the same. I also sometimes break out in itchy solar urticaria after time spent in heat or sun.

When I moved to Portland thirty years ago, the balance of weather I love (gloom, short days, rain, mist, and fog) with weather I don’t (sun, heat) was fine: just enough of the latter to allow for outdoor adventures, and plenty of the former for coziness. Now summers are getting longer and hotter, and I’m spending more time indoors in this season. But hey, I’m finally getting my books (a tiny slice of my office bookshelves is shown here) sorted and packed so that the room can be refloored and repainted. And I’m getting plenty of exercise toting boxes of books downstairs for storage.