Okay, it surprised me a little, but only because I hadn't heard it in four years. Here in the Mid-Atlantic, after three consecutive mild and relatively snow-free winters, our comeuppance came up, with a vengeance. Worse than the winter weather itself has been its extended duration, its mule-headed refusal to go away.
|Foo Dog, Failing.|
So, what started early? The protestations started early, and right on their heels came the reflexive anti-complainer complaints. "You'll be whining about the summer heat in no time," and "You'll be missing winter by June," and so on.
I will not. I promise. There are some things I need to tell you about Summer.
Summer is the first girl who ever holds your hand, and you instantly get drunk on it.
Summer whispers things in your ear - exciting, confusing, innocent and racy and dangerous things. Coming from Summer, they all make perfect sense.
Summer says yes, it's hot. You've spent months all covered up, bundled in layer upon layer, as if you're being shipped cross-country. It's unnatural. Now, let's have a look at you.
Summer sings to you at night, replacing the dead silence of winter with a sweet, invisible symphony.
She wraps herself around you every time you step outside, and when she refuses to let go, it is out of love, not desperation. She adores you, but if you leave her, she'll remind herself that life is short, and simply wrap herself around someone else. Everyone else, actually. Her willingness to love others leaves you desiring her even more.
Sometimes, Summer falls down, but she always thinks it's funny.
If Spring is the chase, Summer is the conquest. And it's a mutual conquest - the very best kind.
Summer is comfortable in her skin, whether she's sleeping by the pool all day, or howling, thundering, and storming all night. She is who she is.
Summer doesn't mind making you uncomfortable. She'll bite you, sting you, make you sweaty, even lightheaded, and give you poison ivy - all of which remind you that you're alive.
Summer doesn't need to drink; she wants to drink.
She doesn't care where you've been - she's happy that now, you're here instead of there.
Summer doesn't watch the news. She loves baseball, but has no idea where her team is in the standings, and she doesn't care.
Summer says come sail away with me.
She makes you stare, catches you staring, and smiles at you when she does. If you don''t stare, that's okay, too - she knows she's hot.
She's a smiling stranger in an open car, peering mischievously over shiny sunglasses, tempting you to climb inside and take off into the still warm air, where you entertain thoughts of never going home. Summer has nowhere to be, and everywhere to go.
As August becomes September, Summer kisses you with strawberry-stained lips, says she loves you, and promises to return. Hers is one of the few promises that, over your lifetime, will never be broken.
She is the rarest of first-loves - the one that never dies.
Another post prompted by the words of a fellow blogger, this one springs forth from "strawberry stained lips," which can be found in Theinnerzone's post NUCLEUS, on the blog A Beetle with Earrings. There are over five hundred bloggers at Studio 30 Plus - check us out...