I am married to a man who physically unfurls in the sun, embracing it like a worshiper at his idol. He gets all sunny from the inside, out. He tans in five minutes. He glows. The guy loves the sun. And therefore summer. I blame my modest upbringing for this – and by modest, I mean, I was barely allowed to wear shorts – but summer for me is more like this thing that barrels me over. I am flattened by heat. And actually flattened is way too clean for what happens to me in the sun. I’m not flattened; I’m sloshy. It’s just wrong. I dream of the clothes we wear in autumn – scarves and little leather jackets, tall boots (oh, the boots). And this fashion-leaning is obvious every summer when I literally cannot find enough short sleeves in my closet for the week.
The only thing that saved me this year is that I took off work for a staycation the very week it finally turned summer here. Before that week off, I was ridiculously out of sorts. We stayed up too late, came home exhausted from a day’s work and an evening of baseball, then stayed up too late again. Jake was this weird fussy mess. The kids were unmotivated during the day. I was lost. I didn’t write at all.
Then the staycation. It was everything I dreamed. I minimized the younger boys’ closet by about five huge bags-full, which I happily donated one very hot afternoon. I gave some books to the library. I got two books from the library that I love so much I feel they might dissolve in my hands when I hold them. I went to the movie theater twice. I had a picnic with Jake on the front lawn. I did not sleep too late, so the days felt nice and long. I ate too much. I sat by a beautiful pool and swam in a cool, muddy lake. And by the time it was over, I was on board. Summer can totally stay.