The Summer(s) of My Discontent

A few weeks ago a meme was going around of a Joan Didion quote from her 1967 essay, American Summer. It begins with the declaration that the summers of our youth are the ones that stay with us in detail, specifically during the years we are in school and summers are synonymous with vacations and freedom. She concludes, “Summer is, after all, the season of escape: the landscape in which to contemplate, alone, our failures and our possibilities; the safety valve, the frontier that none of us wants—or can afford—to see closed.” 

It’s this idea that I keep thinking about as this summer comes to an end. I think I’m supposed to feel sad about the end of summer. And I do, sort of. Despite myself, a strong wave of melancholy sets in around this time every year as I think about the days becoming shorter, and, like Joan says, about the door of possibility shutting once again. 

Summer is actually my least favorite season. To start with, New York can get awfully gross in late summer, and I have become a person who is prone to mild sunstroke and weather migraines, apparently. This is either due to climate change (NYC is “subtropical” now, did you know that?) or aging or both, but the result is pretty grim. Best to just stay inside. But of course, staying inside is the last thing I want to do and my anxiety-brain doesn't let me forget that. Time's a wasting! Look how nice it is outside! Go out! What I put myself through emotionally every summer is another reason why I’d rather just skip from June to October. 

Each May, when the weather becomes consistently warm for the first time, I start making plans. No actual plans, mind you. They exist solely in my head. When I think about seeing my friends, it’s always which weekend to do brunch, what museums or shows we could go to, or what gatherings I might be able to host. This all gets balanced with wanting to visit my family, meeting up with out-of-town friends, having romantic getaways with my boyfriend, and blocking off entire weekends where I do nothing but read and recharge and bask in solitude. 

The reality of budgets, time, energy, and my aforementioned aversion to temperatures over 80 degrees sets in by mid-June. The plan for a big week-long vacation turns into a day trip. Finding mutually free weekends to see friends becomes a second job in itself. The endless possibilities from my May optimism whittle down to three or four usable weekends and the occasional weeknight. Doing something suddenly feels pressured and almost commanded, but not by anyone other than myself. By July, heat wave after heat wave makes me grumpy and not very good company anyway, so I’ll let one weekend go by. Then another. Then, oh my god I can’t believe I’m wasting the whole summer. Then, August. 

Suddenly, I’m in a race against the clock. My own, imaginary clock, but a clock nonetheless. I convince myself that if I don’t see that friend, go to that concert, have that picnic, or go on that trip within the remaining weeks of summer, I will have failed somehow. The friend I didn’t get to see will be lost to me forever. The place I didn’t get to go will fall off every map. The concepts of travel or recreation, and paradoxically, relaxation, get a pin stuck in them for another year. Logically, I know that these possibilities are still available to me regardless of the season. Logic, in this case, is very much beside the point.

And yet here I am on the other side of Labor Day, having done about a fraction of my original summer wishlist, and I'm feeling great. This where my emotional roller coaster of summer always ends - contentment and rejuvenation. Fall is where I thrive. Even with summer temperatures wearing out their welcome, the air feels different, more thrilling, once the calendar reads September. “Pumpkin spice season” has become the ultimate symbol of being a “basic white lady,” but I can’t bring myself to care about what stereotypes I’m playing into once that first cool breeze recharges my entire body and soul. The second I feel it, I come alive again. This is where I wish the endless possibilities of summer really began, with less social pressure, more energy, and a much spookier (and in my opinion, prettier) setting. Aimlessly wandering on a gray day, sipping hot chocolate surrounded by dead leaves and skeleton decorations? There is, to me, nothing better. (Except for maybe the cozy socks, horror novel, and herbal tea waiting for me when I get home…)

But of course, by March, I inevitably get sick of my winter clothes, get depressed by the early darkness, and look forward to the sun coming out again. By May, I’ll feel myself get filled with the allure of summer once again. I’ll make big plans. I’ll text everyone I know about what we can do and where we can go. Summer, at last, is here to provide our escape from dreariness, I’ll think. I’ll do this each year because, at my core, I am an optimist, and just because I know how it’ll end doesn’t mean I won’t begin again each and every time.

FUN STUFF

What I'm Reading: The Ninth Metal by Benjamin Percy

What I'm Watching: The Sandman (Netflix)

What I'm Listening To: Such Pretty Forks in the Road by Alanis Morissette

What I'm Eating: Spicy Miso Pasta (yes, the Chrissy Teigan one)

Sarah Writes Too is a monthly newsletter of short, personal essay-style anecdotes written by me (Sarah LaPolla). If you want to send me questions or comments about any of my posts, you can reply to this email or find me on Twitter at @sarahlapolla. This is a free newsletter. The best way to show support is to subscribe to have future editions sent directly to your inbox (never more than one a month!), or share on social media.