It actually got hot yesterday. For the first time in 7 months, the sun shined, the birds chirped, and the sound of the lawn mowers could be heard for two blocks. Summer is finally here. Granted, I spend the bulk portion of my Sunday cleaning the house and working around the yard, but I still appreciated the need to utilize the oscillating floor fan and a swamp cooler running on about it's last leg. Summertime has the unequivocal capability of making things seem a little less shitty and a little more hopeful. Through the years I've seen different summers, in different towns, with different people; and through the years I've come to notice that each summer, though timelessly familiar as it may seem, is unique every time it comes. Summertime as a child is a time to run, and laugh, and get hurt, and apply fresh stains to church pants while trying to figure out how your dog Puddles has the ability to lay under the cool protection of the deck without being scared of spiders. When we hit 13 years old the summer becomes a time when you can stay awake later because your parents allow you circumstantial curfew amnesty against the standard bed time due to the sun's presence throughout the evening. After 18, summer tends to remain loosely defined as the time when you wish you had done more jogging in the winter and less baking. This is also the time when women of all ages blossom from their parkas, break out the skimpy shorts and tank tops, and make the men of the world rejoice after months of taxing deliberation and patience waiting for the sun to melt away the layered ensembles of winter. It's amazing how deceivingly sexy some women can be with a swim suit on.
So now, I roll into my 25th year of season changes, in Carson City, NV. As I wade out of a winter filled with financial struggles, relationship tribulation, and identity crisis, I can only hope the sun has the sterilizing ability to lift the spirits of, not only the blooming annuals, but myself as well.
