Last night I was planning tomorrow night’s rooftop drinks fiesta (calm down; we’ll keep away from the edges) with a friend, and I asked, “What time should I come over?”
“Oh, 7,” she said. “That’ll give us a couple hours of good solid boozin’ before the sunset.”
I looked outside. The time was 8:00. It was pitch black.
“J.,” I said, “It’s already … dark.”
A quick check of the Weather Channel informed us that sunset is actually scheduled for 7:22 on Sunday night.
And there it is, folks…cold, hard, vicious proof. We’re amid the season’s last, fleeting gasps. Oof. It’s like a bottle of sunscreen to the heart. And I am not even tan!
What happened to those months of sunburns and frolicking about, barefoot in the sand, wild, wind-tousled hair, pony rides, fresh corn and tomatoes and blueberries nightly, chlorine-scented skin and hair, a bathing suit that never fully dries because I just keep putting it on again?
My paltry summer fling(s) consist, sadly, of drunken smooching in darkened bar corners with men I can’t mention for legal reasons, and a collection of mysterious bruises in the aftermath. That’s not a proper fling! What about the hand-holding and campfire songs? Where’s my lanyard? And I still haven’t jumped from the high dive at the wave pool.
Mom, do we have to go back to school?
Remember how it feels to get out of work at 7 pm when it’s already been dark for two hours and you trudge home in your wool coat shivering, wondering what’s on TV and how long it will take to heat up that can of Campbell’s chicken and rice?
Well, at least we unemployed people don’t have to face that travesty of justice. We can be outside when it’s light, and safely home when the darkness comes, with our leftover Thai food, if we plan accordingly. In fact, on blustery cold winter mornings, we can probably stay under our covers until noon, and when we finally do get up, wrap the blankets around us while we sip tea and catch up on our Law and Order before putting in our weekly unemployment claim.
Friends, as we mourn these fleeting summer days, take heart in the fact that this season does come around once a year, and absence makes the heart grow fonder, and at least New York City streets don’t smell like a hooker’s underarm (and I don’t mean the high-class kind) in February.
But while the sun is still warm and the days are beautiful and—rapidly shortening, but light until at least 7—let’s do ourselves a favor and get out there and enjoy them. I myself will be journeying to a pool in Connecticut to splash and swim and sun with a few of YUD’s favorite people. Before this weekend is out, I will wear a bikini, drink rosé, and acquire another bruise, perhaps two. Hell, it’s summer.
I encourage you to do something similar, though not in Connecticut. I hate it when the pool’s too crowded. It’s so … uncivilized.