Summer Lovin

I’ve often argued the advantages of a temperate climate over those of the friendlier weather systems. And summer is more than just a quarter of the argument. If San Diego is perpetually 80 and sunny, how can you truly appreciate the reminder of the last day of school, or recall what it’s like to drive through back roads with your windows down on the way to see your high school friends? If the weather is continually the same, even if it is perfect, there is no change in conditions to trigger the unlocking of all the memories associated with that time.

Summer is freedom. It is more than absence of homework or school. It is an air pleasantly lacking responsibilities and enabling appreciation of the purest joys, like a frosty sundae on a sweltering day. Summer reawakens the naivety and innocence that bills, car troubles and 40-hour weeks have previously put to bed. Our culture has instilled summer with an ease that we carry with us long after we graduate.

Because of the elated association most of us have with June, July, and August, summer is also the time to, sometimes bittersweetly, reminisce. First kisses, first jobs, first loves: the virginities of life are commonly connected with the season and their memory is ushered in every Memorial Day along with the fireflies and firecrackers.

My favorite summer will always be 1997. My second year working as a rides operator at an amusement park, I had the kind of job people quit their career to return to in the midst of a mid-life crisis. Turning 17 that July (summer birthdays make the season that much sweeter) my life was blooming with friendships of high school BFFs as well as a solid group of coworkers I had become close to that summer. The anticipation of senior year sparked energy those months and, if growing up is palpable, this is the time I can most accurately pinpoint.

There is not one event that caused me to realize myself and become comfortable, shedding teenage insecurities. As most things in life, it was the conglomeration of people and relationships, this time set to the tune of “push forward, then pull down to close your lap bars” and the aroma of roasted almonds and milk chocolate emanating from the nearby manufacturer.

Each year, as the air gets sticky and I slip on a tank top, I am reminded of the people I met there. Jon, the first boy I ever considered a best friend. Melanie, the girl I wanted to be, and later, realized how glad I was that I wasn’t. And Jeff, my questionable flirtation that, nine-years-later, I am still maddeningly in love with.

To me, these people and all the stories and sentiments that coexisted in that world are summer. My summer is driving thirty-minutes each way to a summer job, listening the Refreshments and laughing because “Everybody knows that the world is full of stupid people” was the mantra of anyone who had to pacify a parent who’s child was too small to ride a roller coaster.

And summer is more than memories. Even as adults, it is still the most celebrated season. It is a time for vacations and cookouts, sitting outside or laying by a pool. Even confining yourself to the rejuvenating arctic temperatures of a movie theater is a quintessential summer activity. Beaches and thunderstorms, butterflies and mosquitoes, they all come with the territory

It’s hard to be in a bad mood on a summer day, even in the boiling humidity. No matter the workload, the stress, or the kids, summer will always be a reminder of your own childhood, of the freedom it represented and the opportunities ahead. There is something tangible about summer because of its thick symbolism. No matter your position in life, as soon as the temperatures rise, there is an air of promising liberation and a welcoming unknown of what the next three months will bring. It is a meteorological time machine and the closest we will ever come to eternal youth.