the word of summer

On the internet, I see pictures of people in real clothes with waistbands and collars and buttons. They have fixed their hair, perhaps put on some makeup. They are busy doing their real work, contributing to the world and their communities. 

My husband—sans the makeup—is much the same. He shaves his head, puts on his suit, and ends up on the front page of the paper. He is truly awesome and I am proud of him. I’m also starting to believe that that will never be my life again. 

Rationally, I know that’s incorrect. But viscerally, we are six weeks into a summer break that I have described to several people as “sweaty.” The temperature is high, the humidity is higher, and the only thing even higher is the energy level of my four boys. 

I have sat outside at camp with my oldest, reading but also sweating. I have taken them to the pool, to the splash pad, to the creek, to hike on the Appalachian Trail, and sweated through all those adventures. I have a small backyard garden and when I escape for a few moments to tend it, yes, even there I am sweating. 

Several years ago, I gave in. Summer became the time of sports bras and ponytails, baseball caps and bike shorts. I know I am going to sweat. I don’t bother with makeup. I buy sunscreen in the multipacks. I occasionally wear earrings to remember another life. I embrace this season of sweat, but it has obscured my memory of anything else. 

Summer used to be my favorite for good reasons. I love the long days of sunshine, the green that glows from every direction, fresh veggies, the more relaxed pace. But now, its intensity almost overwhelms me. I find myself longing for the more varied days of fall and spring. Even the more restrained weather of winter—here, in central Virginia, not Michigan, of course—seems a gift. 

I want to eat dinner on my patio. Wear a nice shirt. Perhaps even slip on a pair of jeans without immediately taking them off. And that will come. But first, some more sweating.