Wearing wool on the beach
Summer feels like a party I wasn’t invited to, a joke to which I stand on the outside
My last essay was so emotionally raw that it took me days to recover from writing it, so I’ve decided to take the entirety of August off from posting. I’m hoping to reconnect with myself, stay hydrated and get inspired during my makeshift summer staycation.
See you in the fall <3
I was so deeply committed to my sadness after my grandfather’s passing that I forfeited my spot on a family beach vacation, the Floridian adventure made unappealing by the image of myself, blistered and burnt, crying into hot, white sand.
Until now, I’ve only lost one other loved one during the summer months: my dad’s oldest brother known for his wit and whimsy. During a visit of ours to Orlando, he hosted us at his condo and warmly offered us all a baked bean on a stick; during another he gifted me a blue casino chip, a free $1 I could redeem when I was older (but I never did).
I’m more accustomed to deaths that congregate around the winter holidays, the chill of a 4 pm sunset as sympathetic as a quilted comforter. I find that wintertime welcomes sadness while summer begs me to ignore it, daring me to choose apathy amidst the chorus of playground children echoing down the street.
Summer has always felt like a party I wasn’t invited to, a joke to which I stand on the outside. I don’t have the social stamina to enjoy longer days nor the willingness to endure any afternoon above 70 degrees. I don’t like the feeling of my fingertips pruning in the pool or the stale stink of sweat on my scalp. I crack under the lofty expectations of summer travel, too easily overwhelmed by layovers and reservations to bother keeping up.
I’ve hidden from the sunlight more than usual this year, afraid of being perceived for sobbing in the park and anxious about carrying the weight I’ve gained from accidental emotional eating. I’ve lacked excitement for much of anything since May, my imagination for the coming months as hazy and doubtful as a desert mirage. Coping with heartache has made me especially sedentary, safe in the quiet comfort of the air- conditioned indoors.
This summertime grief has felt like wearing wool on the beach: uncomfortably envying the glistening bodies around me while feeling discomfort in my own, a persistent itchiness on the inside of my arms and a compulsion to cover up in the heat.
If I were to jump in the ocean for relief, I would be refreshed for only the minute in which I can hold my breath, pulsing pressure in my ears in an underwater world gone silent. Breaking the surface would only remind me how painful it is to catch my breath after being so close to bursting, the same strained muscles I feel after wailing in the dark.
Feature Photo by Alex Perez on Unsplash
