Summer Show Girl

I.

Fucking.

LOVE.

Summer.

I love every single thing about it and with every sense. It lets me let go and produces a freedom I don’t know the other nine months of the year.

It doesn’t matter if I’m working or not – this sensory-fueled season is reminiscent of a break like those threeish months when we were school kids. A break from the dark and dead and cold and the frazzled movements and ugly auras created by deadlines and other corporate douchebag-ery.

My love for the only-season-that-should-be-capitalized (though AP Style will disagree) is endless:

I love the sweat that gathers above my lip and the kind that drips along my back – the kind that moves slowly like it’s carving a river down my thighs.

I love watching my plants explode with color and sex – the same way flirtations and relationships do this time of year. I even love the bugs I have to spray away with peppermint oil, the scent lingering and intertwining with my geraniums.

I love the freckles that cluster on my face like chocolate sprinkles and become a topping to the ice cream that is a lover’s face, as I face him, shaking my head with laughter.

Summer, like love, creeps in slowly and then appears all at once: One day I’m looking for a sweater, and the next, I’m living in a bikini, fully exposing myself to the elements every chance I get.

If I could spend my life wearing as little to nothing as possible, without expending any energy on deciding what layers to put on, letting my hair air dry into its natural waves, slow-walking with a cocktail or fresh juice, eating outdoors, floating in a pool of water, I would: I’m my happiest, my healthiest, my own most beautiful in this season, and I hold onto it for as long as I possibly can.

Everything in summer is electric with a hint of lime and makes some man mesmerized by the contrast of my eyes and my tan lines – the ones that accentuate the places that should be touched.

Summer’s delicious scents of coconut and warm sunshine and air and chlorine fuel me. Its sounds of crickets and fireworks soothe me. The feeling of slippery sunscreen and pool water make my skin lazily gasp for reprieve, making every shower the most sensual experience as I wash away the slickness. The tastes and textures of watermelon and garden vegetables burst on my tastebuds, while the sights of skin and full moons make me catch my breath.

I eat, drink, and breathe it all in, never getting enough of the real-life oasis.

But I see the striking, melted dreamsicle sunsets slipping away like my youth, and it is now mid-August. And the insides of my stomach are beginning to squeamishly drop, my mind beginning to feel that old, cold, gray feeling of disappointment, knowing it’s soon coming to a close, and I’m going to have to put on restricting tights and jackets, and cover up the parts that should be exposed. My deep breaths will become shallower with sharper air and dryer hair.

I watch as children pick out school supplies, and Halloween decorations pop up at stores before my neighbor’s 4^th of July décor has been put away for the season. My friends are RSVPing to fall festivals, and thirsting for the insipid taste of pumpkin spice, and aching for cooler weather. Of course, they’re wrong in their passion for anything other than the orange glitter that is summer.

August is the life – and death – of a Summer (eat it, AP) show girl like me.