I wore black today to mourn the end of the summer. I was so sad that I cried a little, but then I went outside and it was hot as balls. The calendar also tells me that we have at least 3 more weeks of summer, and I am sure a New York City Indian Summer is just what the doctor ordered, so no fretting, friends. The summer is not yet over.
As of tomorrow I am still going to wear flip flops. I will probably still wear flip flops until December, when it finally sinks into my brain that the summer is indeed over and that the days are actually getting longer (it is the only way to stay sane when you wake up before the sun rises and get home after it sets). I will also still wear white (because I am pretty sure nobody cares). I will still sweat profusely and might even get my ass to the ocean to dip my toes in it for the first time in a long time.
The summer is not over. I will definitely still eat barbecued food items and wear little to no make-up everyday. I will still pound beers like it’s 90 degress (um, because it is and I really like beer) and stay up late trying to hear the crickets. I will still wear cotton dresses and keep up with shaving my legs. I will still get mosquito bites and crank my A/C on full blast when I am home. I will beg for rain via dancing and look for fireworks towards the southern sky. I will still go up to the roof to watch the planes fly by and listen to my neighbors do their dishes and watch their tv’s and play with their children.
I will still sit on my fire escape admiring what used to be my flower garden before the Squirrels came and started burying their winter stash and eating my sunflowers. I will still go for walks and bike rides with Captain Clam, taking pictures of whatever comes my way.
I will still treat every party I go to like it’s the 4th of July and I will pet every single dog that crosses my path (they totally want me to pet them). I will still ride in a cab with the windows down and wander around slowly through the booths at the Union Square Farmer’s Market. I will let summer linger in my mind because the next 75 days will be the poetic dance of Summer’s desperate plea to hold onto itself.