Summer summer summer!!!!
June first always kicks off summer in my mind. For three months, three delicious months, every last mature cell in my body (and admittedly, there's only about a dozen) turns off and the super hyper, child-me pops out for the next 90 days. It's like that scene in Alien, where Sigourney Weaver's friend is eating dinner, feels a few stomach pains, and then ends up on the kitchen table of the space ship with an alien fetus clawing out of his flesh. It's just like that, but more fucked up.
I don't know what it is, but everybody around me seems to have it. The sun is shining, the grass is green, the whole world seems to be out and about packing the outdoor cafes, chasing their dogs around like children and biking around town in a pair of picnic pants like some kind of fucking JCrew ad. And, the skin- the chests and legs and shoulders of the opposite sex are finally exposed and glistening, sweating in the sun like sausages on a grill. And while I'm happily married, this time of year has me panting out the window of my car like a dog in heat.
Husband (driving): "Honey, you're drooling."
Me (passenger seat): "Our neighbor's son is home from college. And he's mowing their lawn. Without his shirt."
Husband: "That's weird, honey- he's like 19. He's a kid."
Me: "Do you think they need anybody to baby-sit him, then? Because if they do, I'm Kristy Thomas."
Husband: "Not funny."
I sighed. "God, he looks like Taylor Lautner," I moaned, wishing I was Bella.
Summertime is a total excuse to mentally regress without looking like an idiot. Want to stroll downtown in your husband's boxer briefs chewing on a funnel cake? It's ok, it's SUMMERTIME! Want to drink six margaritas on somebody's patio, pass out in their yard, and then get woken up in their grass the next day when the sprinklers go off? It's ok, it's SUMMERTIME! Want to blast Kesha's latest single out the window of your 1992 Subaru station wagon with your greasy hair in a scrunchie? It's ok, it's SUMMERTIME! Want to skip deodorant? Read a trashy romance novel? Make out with a hobo? SUMMERTIME! SUMMERTIME! SUMMERTIME!
"This is fun!" I said to myself gaily, drunk on Ketel One at two o'clock in the afternoon last Saturday and drawing pictures on the sidewalk out of chalk. First, I drew a picture of a bunny. Next, I drew a picture of the bunny holding a flower. Then I drew a picture of Satan eating the bunny. It would probably make the neighborhood kids cry.
"Babe?" I heard my husband call out the window of our 5th floor condo.
"I'm down here!" I yelled from the street where I sat, my eyes squinting up at our building and my legs stained with colored chalk. My husband was hanging out the window in a stained, yellowed t-shirt and holding a beer.
"I can fit eleven of those stale Marshmallow Peeps leftover from Easter in ONE toilet paper tube!" He cried. "Can you fucking believe it?!?"
"Damn!" I shouted, impressed. "Oh, and honey- could you bring me a beer? Let's slam it and then sneak into the rec center pool!"
"Ok!" He shouted back, and then disappeared into the condo. I added a few squirts of blood around the wound of the neck of the bunny where Satan had ripped into it. I wanted it to be realistic.
Work seems to go to hell, too. Around 3:40pm, somebody says something casual, like "Every Tuesday Sullivan's has half price jager bombs."
We all give noises of approval, and then twelve minutes later somebody else says, "Gee, we've worked a TON today. And I don't think we took lunch, right?"(We actually took a two-hour lunch playing Velcro Ball in the parking lot, but hey- who's counting?)
"Maybe we should schedule an out-of-office meeting," I'll suggest, casually. "Y'know, maybe we could brainstorm ideas to reduce overhead and become more cost efficient?" I asked.
"Great idea," somebody else will say, and 45 minutes later we're at Sullivan's slamming jager bombs and gossiping about office hookups, upcoming vacations, and who the hottest Kardashian sister is (my vote is on Kendall Jenner).
My point is, welcome summer into your home- be immature, stupid, and reckless. Your dignity might suffer for it, but in the name of fun, really- who cares? Somewhere out there there's a bucket of sidewalk chalk with your name on it.
I recommend drawing a bunny.
Quarter Life Whatever
3 years ago