It’s summer. Oh, yay.
I’m less than thrilled about it.
Oh summertime, why must you complicate my life year after sweaty year?
Why must you constantly resurface after springtime’s sad end, bringing with you unbearably humid days, itchy mosquito bites, bored children, disappointing bikini bodies, sunburn, and debt-inducing electric bills?
And this year, as if there aren’t already enough reasons for me to loathe the summer, apparently now great white sharks have begun infesting the waters surrounding the New York/New Jersey coast line.
At least in summers past you only ran the risk of maybe losing a toe or two to some kind of flesh-eating bacteria found in those disgustingly polluted waters. But sharks won’t be looking to merely nibble on your toe a little. Those motherfuckers will take off your entire leg and probably a nice chunk of torso to go along with it.
But I digress. My point is this: I am clearly not a summer person. It’s hot, it’s sticky, it’s overrated, and it’s way, way, WAY too long. And right now, it’s only the beginning.
After this last brutal winter, I saw a meme floating around the internet that said “the first person to complain about the heat in the summer is getting smacked.” Well, get your sweaty palms ready for my face. If I deserve a smack for saying I’ll take two feet of snow over heatstroke any day, then so be it.
I didn’t hate the summer quite so much when I was a little younger, back when summertime meant fun outdoor happy hours and long, relaxing days on the beach with friends. Of course, summer was fun then.
But then I found myself nine months pregnant one sweltering Fourth of July, just five miserable days away from my due date, swollen kankles like something out of a Shrek movie, at least fifty pounds heavier than than I had been the summer before, feeling like a hippopotamus trekking through the Mojave in search of a baby elephant to swallow (yes, I’m aware that elephants don’t live in the desert, but work with me here), and I thought, I am done with you, summer. This is just a little too much for me.
You know what I find hilarious? When people talk about “the lazy days of summer”. LAZY? I wish I had the time for laziness in the summer! I wish I could be a daiquiri-holding, sun-bathing, pool-dipping summertime lazyass for even ONE DAY during the summer. Just one!
Instead I find myself wasting away hours of my life in boiling hot amusement park lines for two-minute rides and shelling out a half month’s paycheck for some shitty lemonade or a crappy stuffed animal that will get thrown in the toy bin ten seconds after we get home. Or I find myself at the beach, hunting my kids down to reapply their sunblock and keep them out of the shark-infested water every fifteen minutes. Or if I’m really lucky, I get to go to my favorite place on earth: the park.
It seems like you always have to be DOING something with the kids in the summer. If you’re not busy with vacations, day trips, parks, barbecues, block parties, pools, carnivals, the beach, etc., then you’re epically failing as a parent and maybe even a human being.
And why wouldn’t you be doing any of that? It all sounds like a blast on the surface—at least to those of you without young children. But those of us with young kids aren’t fooled by the seemingly “fun” activites that summer brings. To anyone constantly dragging their kids through hot crowds, who find themselves in a permanent state of terror at the thought of their little one falling into a pool without a pair of swimmies on, these summer days are nothing short of exhausting.
While some days really do end up being fun — and those are the times that keep you planning one insane outing after another – some days just leave you dreaming of the first day of school.
Which is, like, really, REALLY far away.
Misery loves company, folks. Please tell me I’m not the only one counting the minutes until Labor Day?