Right now, the sky looks like an orange creamsicle and a grape creamsicle melting into each other, the colors possibly diffusing in an unsual way because of the low placement of the clouds in the sky, now drifting away from today's false threat of rain...
(I've been trying to figure out why I have been so tired lately. And then I remember that I'm always surprised by the fact that I never remember what my PMS symptoms are like, which explains a lot of things.)
I'm blown away by the fact that it's already eight days into August: the last stretch of the summer. This second half of my summer has had me feeling like i have missed out on anything eventful and exciting during this period of time. It seems like most folks identify their summers with the constant best friends they spend time with and the endless numbers of adventures they pile into.
My summers are no such summers, and at times, I wonder if the lack of resemblance between their vacation and my own implies that something is wrong with me. Why isn't my life a huge adventure during my time off?
I've come to ponder that maybe that's a problem with the media and Facebook: they provide an unrealistic expectation of what a summer vacation should be for young folks. You begin to think that every day and night should be spent with your besties, possibly meeting some stranger that you fall in love with while you stare off into the distance of some desert highway and plunge under the night sky into the waters of a hidden rock quarry only the locals of a small mid-western town know of -- complete with having no one above the age of twenty-four in sight!
My life isn't like that at all. Instead, I've been sassed by boys who automatically (and immaturely) friend-zone me when they get uncomfortable sharing breathtaking and intimate sights with a girl they're likely to never be interested in, assuming that all such moments should be spent with a love interest. Instead, I've been long ignored by high-school peers who wrote in my year book that we'd hang out all summer. My summers of long ago were days spent on my bed writing of fantastical journeys in and to other worlds when I wasn't soaked in tears of loneliness. And my summers now are car-less, jobless and driver-licensceness at nineteen with the addition of parental financial dependency and a 5-year old to babysit with while they're at work.
My life isn't at all like "they", the media and society, say it should be. You know: all the "you're still young!, you should be having fun"'s from clueless, older strangers that momentarily make me feel like I'm less of an accomplished young adult for not living up to their idea that every ninteen year old has to be partying it up "yolo"-style every night.
My life isn't like that at all. Not this summer. And probably not any summer. Surely, there must be something wrong with me, because society says so...
And yet, there are days where I'm sane enough to remember that there really isn't something wrong with me. There's nothing wrong with me for experiencing seasons of monotony and waiting and discouragement and doubt.The one thing this makes me is normal. The other thing it makes me is human.
And the best part of remembering that there isn't anything wrong with me, is that then I can remember the beautiful highlights of this summer when I'm not constantly longing for an insatiable more. I can remember when a friend of mine surprised me with dinner, a sleepover and the beach for my ninteenth birthday. I can remember the delicious malt that I made and later devoured at my training session at Leopold's only to later get my first official sugar high. I can remember the heart to hearts and laughter shared with my temporary roommate in Savannah. I can remember the trip to the beach, playing in the sea with my mother and the nights she tells me how much she loves her childhood. I can remember the dancing and singing and awkward memories and beautiful reunions that occured at the second annual Wild Goose festival. And I can remember how this summer, i've thought more about writing: how I want writing to be part of my journey in being vulnerable and maintaining that vulnerability, as well as getting the practice to later write stories to share with folks around me. All those beautiful things are placed back into my memory when I no longer am fretting so much over how my summer "should be".
On top of that there probably won't be another time like this time. In what other day probably next year will I be trying to write while distracted with the relentless rambling and pursuit for attention from my baby sister? Right now, I may be desiring to devise some sort of escape plan, but, it's strange to think that maybe someday I'll look back on this and laugh at it all, just like my twin and I laughed today over some silly stories and drawings we found in an old Yu-Gi-Oh! notebook we filled during a long summer in Panama years ago. We were possibly dead bored then, and yet I miss those days. Maybe I will miss this, too.
So my summers are far from our current youth culture's "yolo" ideals and far from glamorous. Still, if I only live once, I'd like to think that without the mundane and sadness, we eventually would become dulled to each experience that surrounds us. If I only live once, I'd think it wise to embrace every moment in my life as apposed to only those that would be deemed likeable on Facebook.
I'd like to think even that every dull day could be redeemed with a willing heart, that maybe seasons of slowness such as this can be redeemed when you have the courage to admit that you yearn for something memorable and energizing on this day.
The monotony may continue, but to your surprise, you may even then look up and out to notice the beauty of an orange and grape creamsicle puddle expanding and contracting in the sky above.
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