There are many reasons to hate summer and I feel all of them acutely: the heat, the humidity, the mosquitoes, the way my hair looks bad even when it looks good, the pull to get tan that arrives like clockwork even though every winter I say I am thankful to be fair-skinned and will lord my presumed wrinkle-free-ness over my friends for decades, the way the first couple beach days make you look somehow paler than you were before (because how is it that you are THIS WHITE with THIS PRONOUNCED of a tan line), the lack of clothing options, the terrible shorts, the stupid sandals, being unable to sleep with my comforter on.
I always say that I’d be okay with a one-month-per-year summer, and mostly I mean that.
There are moments, like this past Sunday when I spent my midday hungover in a water park, riding the lazy river and being allowed to lie still on an inner tube with my friends and put my face in the water when I absolutely needed to, then reluctantly agreeing to ride one of the slides with them, screaming with my eyes closed the entire time, and having a very tiny 17-year-old lifeguard usher me out of the part of the pool where the slide dumps you out, then getting slightly nauseous afterward because liquor + water thrashing is perhaps not the ideal hangover plan, and then deciding that the only thing that we could reasonably be expected to do was buy nachos and Dippin Dots from the concessions “to make us feel better” — these kinds of summer things I am fine with. Also when the cherries are on sale for $2.50 at the grocery store. I love that too.