It’s officially June. Summer is here. The sunniest, brightest days of the year have finally arrived, full of fireflies, backyard BBQs and the tart scent of sunscreen.
And I have a dirty confession to make: I don’t enjoy summer that much.
Look, I don’t want to be the annoying schmuck that complains about everyone’s favorite season, but I must live my truth.
First, I want to be clear: I do like summer, in theory. The sticky drips of watermelon juice on my fingers; linen shorts and flowy sundresses; the sun staying out longer and dappling the tree leaves in golden light; baseball games and grilled burgers; the squeak of flip-flops against dewy morning grass; red bikinis and listening to music on the porch; plastic Walmart pitchers full of lemonade; reading cheesy romance books.
Summer in reality, though, is a different story.
For starters, it gets astronomically hot outside, and I basically become a useless human being the moment that my body overheats. I cease functioning altogether. I don't speak, I don't eat. I am as useless as the dead bug floating around in your glass of sweet tea.
And the part that really steams my clams about it all is that we're supposed to act thrilled that sweat is gushing from our glands at an alarming rate because, well, summer! So fun! The sun is out, the grass is green, the birds are chirping! How precious! So much to be thankful for!
In reality, though, I’m mostly just feeling twitchy and violent, like I might commit a crime if I get one more mosquito bite.
Is it just me? Anybody else? Can I get a witness, please?
I’ve had many wonderful summers in my lifetime, believe me, but at the end of the day, I’m just naturally predisposed for the slowness of the deep winter months. As ugly and dark as that time of the year can be, I love having nothing to do and not feeling bad about it. I burrow inside under a blanket with lots of books, eat some soup, and wait out the cold. My version of heaven.
Nobody judges you for having nothing to do in winter…because nobody is doing anything! We’re all too busy grumbling and swearing out in the driveway at 6 a.m. as we scrape snow and ice from our windshields to even consider making a plan. The word itself becomes archaic and foreign, something out of a storybook from a different lifetime.
Nobody wants to make plans in January. No, we want to go to work, complain to our coworkers about the weather and validate one another’s misery over the sun setting so early, then go back home and eat twelve pounds of buttered pasta. I don’t make the rules.
Like clockwork, though, plans return by summertime. We all get busy again. The weekends rapidly fill up with picnics, weddings, trips, graduation parties, birthday parties, bridal showers, baby showers and everything else under the sun.
I’m sorry for complaining. It’s just that summer slams into me like a freight train each year. Summer’s like that extroverted friend with zero social cues. She bursts through the door, startling you from your lazy winter reverie and “Harry Potter” movie marathon. She's got a crazy glint in her eye. She wants to know what the plans are. She can't stand still. She's hopping from foot to foot, urging you to get up and get moving: "What are we doing today? Something fun, I hope? Why aren’t you ready yet?"
You point meekly at your bowl. "Can I finish my soup first?"
Summer smacks the bowl from your hands and the warm minestrone splatters onto the walls. She bends down so you're face-to-face and peers intensely into your eyes. You can smell the freshly squeezed lemonade on her breath. "It's summertime now, pal. From here on out, it’s pasta salad and hot dogs only.”
You see what I mean! Zero to one hundred so fast.
Thankfully, I do love pasta salad, too. I'll survive.
About me: My name is Kylie Jasper. I’m a 24-year-old weekly columnist for the Indiana Gazette newspaper. I’m currently living in a suburb of Ohio with my sweetie pie boyfriend, Tyler, and our nine million fish in our home, which we affectionately call the “Beach House.”
I write from my little window view of the world. I try to hone in on specific details, experiences and memories, all of which prove to be universal in the grand scheme of things. We’re all just here, aren’t we?
In addition to columns, I share newsletter and photos of what I get up to each month.
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