. . . and the living is easy

It’s funny to me how summer can be so many different things throughout the years. When you’re young, summer means an escape from the classroom. It means early morning swim practice, followed by a full day by the pool. It means multi-hour car rides en route to summer vacation, trying desperately to survive the pokes, prods, kicks, and flatulence of your siblings in the back seat. Summer means sleep-away camp and reunions with once-a-year friends. It means post-cards, pool parties, and popsicles. It means catching fireflies, growing tadpoles, playing capture the flag, and trying desperately to heal constantly skinned knees.

By the time you reach high-school, summer means finding a summer job that you can fit in around morning and evening swim practices. It means focusing more on your tan than on your tree-fort, and it means a later curfew and fling romances. And it means the final days at home before starting a new phase.

In college, summer is the strange blend of old and new. It is the return home for the first time since being away, and trying to determine how much you and old friends still have in common. It is realizing the strength of friendships, but missing new friends. It means long-distance romances, and learning how to live with parents again after a year of freedom. Summer is the pursuit of the perfect internship, or the excitement of the return to campus.

After college, summer shifts entirely. Rather than nine intense months punctuated with three months of freedom, all of the sudden summer arrives and the only real change is the need to figure out how to stay cool in work clothes in ninety degree heat. Those of us who went to graduate school delayed that transition a few years, though we did find ourselves wearing the very same suits during out stints as interns and summer-associates. But regardless of whether reality strikes at twenty-two or twenty-six, the truth becomes painfully clear: somewhere after twenty, summer loses the same charm it once had.

Sure, there are outdoor happy hours and the occasional road trip or even a lengthy vacation, but the lazy days are left to weekend afternoons. There’s a chore for every fire-fly, and all of the sudden it’s your job to not only shuck but also cook and clean up after the corn-on-the cob. As you might be able to tell, Summer is when I feel the oldest, and when quitting my job to become a teacher seems the most appealing—three months free from the daily routine; three months to pursue hobbies, budding interests, or moonlight in a field of your true passion. It really is unfortunate that more industries can’t adopt such an approach. . . Guess it will just have to be a summer day dream for now.