Yeah, yeah, summer is almost here, the sun is out, the earth is warming at too rapid a rate, blah blah blah. I get it, okay? I get it. Summer is upon us. If you’re in California like I am, it’s most certainly already here. Where I live, the temperature has been in the 80s since April, and right on cue, everyone has been losing their damn minds.
Something about the approach of summer throws people into a frenzy. (Buy the flamingo blow-ups for the pool, and hand me a pineapple, like, now. It’s time!) All the sweaters, jackets, and other bulky, fat-hiding clothing we’ve been clinging to so desperately have to go back into the closet, because no one needs knitted sweater when it’s 70 degrees at eight o clock at night. Summer is all about freedom: freedom to show more skin, to stay out later since it’s sunnier for longer, and to do whatever the hell you want since the whole season likes to flaunt this supposedly easygoing nature. Summer is loose, and easy, and happy, right? Those are some of the defining guidelines of the season. But summer, underneath all that happy-go-lucky exterior, is just a high maintenance bitch.
Sure, fun shit happens in summer. But the whole philosophy that more fun shit than usual is supposed to happen in summer is what makes it so high maintenance. None of the other seasons make you feel like you have to go out on Wednesday night because everyone else is going to take Instas on the beach with their mojitos, or that if you aren’t poolside in a brand new bikini every single Saturday like clockwork, you’re wasting summer’s precious time. Never is there more pressure to be tan and drunk in exotic places than in summertime, and if you aren’t in Santorini or Cancun drinking a 2,000 calorie cocktail while somehow simultaneously remaining five pounds under what you should weigh, you just suck.
Summer expects extravagant amounts of money and time to be spent in the name of “fun” and “relaxation,” despite the fact that paying for plane tickets to Barbados is stressful enough to send you looking for a paper bag to breathe into. In autumn or winter, or even spring, no one expects you to try so hard. If you want to sit on your couch with your hair up in a bun and gain six or seven pounds, no one bats an eye. In summer, it’s expected that you appear as though you’re having fun at all times, even if it’s 97 degrees and humid outside, and you’re so hungover from day drinking that all you want to do is flop onto your air-conditioned apartment floor and cry until you pass out.
It doesn’t matter if you hate the outdoors. You’re going to go on that hike with your friends to the waterfall so that everyone on social media can see that you’re *adventurous.* You’re going to suck your pale tummy in for yet another Snapchat showing you and your best friend in coordinating swim suits that she forced you to buy as you get yet another sunburn, leaving your nose peeling for weeks. By the time it’s finally starting to get chilly again, you’ll be so thankful to be able to quit maxing out your credit card on weekend trips that you won’t have time to be sad that the days are getting shorter.
Summer’s fun, but she’s also a bitch. I’m just saying. So buckle up, because the reign of summer is just starting, and we have months of her shit to get through before we can really chill out again. I did just book tickets to Cancun, though, so like. See the rest of you try-hards on the beach..