Summer is the time when one sheds her tensions with her clothes, and the right kind of day is jeweled balm for the battered spirit. A few of those days and you can become drunk with the belief that all’s right with the world.
Recently, a friend of mine was making fun of people who are freaking out about summer ending while in my presence. She noticed that my face suddenly fell. “Oh, sorry Liz… I forgot, you love summer.”
I threw a rather dramatic tantrum just for her entertainment but walked away confused. Is this something to mock? Is my love of summer an affection reserved for simpletons? Should I toughen up and not be so sensitive to the drop in temperature, the lack of sunlight, the closed coastlines, the swampy slushy sidewalks? The spark that leaves everyone’s faces? The disappearance of seeing knees other than my own for months?
I get it, hot weather isn’t for everyone. And yeah, I understand the argument that “I can always put on more clothes but you can’t take them off if you’re hot.” Ok, but can you be fully nude on a beach in the winter?
I think we could all use some of that jeweled balm right now. I think we need at least another handful of summertime to help convince us that all’s right, or at least, all’s tolerable with the world. These are the precious few days we have left of this magic. So go forth, young Brooklynites. Drink all the beers. Kick all the ass. Take all the names (and numbers). Give zero of the fucks. Painlessly shrug off every stink eye from poodles who decidedly have better hair than you.
This is our time. Let’s get hot and heavy, before we get cool and all Fall for each other.
Now is the time.
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