What I plan to do in the next few weeks will be the metaphorical equivalent of me throwing myself at Summer’s feet, wrapping my arms around her ankles and begging her not to go just yet, please, please, please, I’ll do anything, ohpleaseohpleaseohplease! I’ll use my teeth if I have to.
I have always loved Summer and her warm breezes and hot cement and drippy watermelons. I don’t understand people who crave Winter. Clearly, they are mentally ill.
Countless times during the summer I do a simple exercise. While doing something summery, I try to slow time down and let the experience permeate every cell of my body, as if I can keep it in reserve somewhere in my spleen to be called on sometime in mid-January. It’s yet to work.
When I try to access these warm memories in mid-January, the only message that comes back is, “It is freezing. As far as I recall, it has always been freezing, and it will continue to be gray, mucky and frozen forever. You’re doomed to a slow, cold death. There is no such thing as Summer.”
So, if you happen to run into me in the next few weeks, don’t be alarmed when I am wearing my swimsuit every where I go, refusing to eat anything but grilled food, watching only poorly-acted action movies, listening to my Summer CDs, asking you to reapply sunscreen to my back, and demanding Tiger’s Blood Snowies every hour on the hour.
This is just how I cope.