Summer Is an Attention-Grabby Bitch

On blue-sky melancholy, becoming, and the pressure to make the most of it.

No one wants to say it.

I don’t want to say it.

But here it is: summer is an attention-grabby bitch.

Did the screen catch on fire?

Will a mob of perineum sunnists cancel me?

Have my stripes as a former houseboat liveaboard been revoked?

As someone from a place where two-thirds of the year is atrocious, summer is a bit of a celebrity.

And believe me, she knows it.

We talk about her well before she arrives and long after she leaves.

We roll out special furniture, plant things we know will die, and dazzle her with an action-packed itinerary.

This week, I bought a new tent.

I already have a tent, but I can’t speak to polyester-and-pole condition. And after the year we’ve had, I refuse to be caught with my pants down—not unless it’s after dark, in an 80-degree lake!

As someone who brought a wheelie suitcase on a three-day portaging trip, I do not need multiple tents.

But here I am, a good Canadian, prepping for the arrival of our much-anticipated guest.

And don’t get me wrong, I love summer. Mostly.

Every nice day, I go out for a “sun bake.” I lie on a patio cushion until I grow faint and perspiration drips from my loins. My leathered chest, arriving two decades ahead of schedule, is a permanent marker of my commitment to the cause.

I also own those backpack beach chairs.

I have enough Coleman coolers to erect an insulated totem pole.

I wear Crocs with jibbits (or as I call them, gizzy-bits).

However, there’s pressure in hosting our celebutant.

There can be something strangely melancholy about a string of blue skies. I think it’s because bad weather offers us places to hide.

We are allowed to climb in then claw our way back out.

We are permitted to cozy under blankets and let our minds wander.

We are satisfied when, between the rise and fall of the sun, we just make a soup.

But summer takes away our hiding places. She demands more of us.

She’s boisterous, and more often than not, feels out of reach.

She has a way of making us feel like we’re doing it all wrong.

As kids, summer felt infinite.

We’d swim in chilly lakes and go to amusement parks.

We’d call on friends and scream-sing Sheryl Crow inside kleenex-box-shaped cars.

We’d crunch Sun-in through our hair and compare birthmarks on trampolines.

The days and weeks of summer stretched on, and by the time September rolled around, we were different people.

As adults, summer is 13 weekends. Thirteen summer Saturdays, tumbleweeding through nostalgic hope, and punctuated somewhere between responsibility and the occasional Fudgesicle.

Weekend 1: Canada Day

Weekend 2: Music Festival

Weekend 5: Drywall

Weekend 6: Kitchen Install

Weekend 8: Wedding

Weekend 9: Camping

Weekend 11: Go out East

Summer firmly encourages us to make the most of her precious window.

And undoubtedly, things fall by the wayside. Writing becomes inconsistent. Building slows down. Plans start to overlap. Then, suddenly it’s August, and your only routine is that there is no routine, but there will be mojitos!

A change of pace is often welcomed, but it’s just that I like who I’m becoming. And it all feels so precarious.

If winter is where we work, summer is where we accidentally live. She strongarms us into enjoying for enjoyment’s sake, in ultraviolet 3D.

But the reality is, summer isn’t faster or slower than the rest of the year. She just has a penchant for making us feel guilty.

We spend all winter saying, “Fuck, I can’t wait for summer.”

Then summer arrives, and we feel like we should be somewhere else. As though we should be using this time to become the fantasy versions of ourselves we spent our holed-up indoor months conjuring.

And this isn’t fair.

It’s not fair for the days we brushed snow off our cars, worked overtime, or were so depleted we invested in red light therapy.

So instead of giving in and feeling bad about what we should or should not be doing, why don’t we let summer in slowly?

Let’s enjoy her quietly on a Tuesday, when even she has grown a bit tired.

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