hesaidsummer_inside
HE SAID:
Summer lovin', had me a blast - sort of.
My fleeting romance wasn't so invigorating that I squeezed into extra-small leather and sang its falsetto praises like "Grease." In reality, the affair's peak was one killer spooning session. Otherwise we simply goo-goo-eyed each other and watched terrible movies like "Confessions of a Shopaholic." (Don't worry, I shotgunned a beer immediately thereafter.)
Regardless of the fling's innocence, it was nice to know such effortless affection. I mean, our agendas weren't packed. And that's what those toasty months seem to afford. Most of us are free from the vise of academia, and aside from job or internship duties, social pursuits often top our priorities. It's prime time to throw your game around like Tyrod to Coale.
If you manage to snag a sundress, you and the lady might partake in common summer activities like eating purple Freeze Pops or attending amphitheater concerts - the joys of such things are hard to argue. But the more I analyze dog-days dating, the more I realize my allegiance lies with jack-o'-lanterns' weather.
Consider supposedly pleasant summer outings like picnicking amid flowers or putt-putting on family beach trips. I see past the charm of daisies to the bees they host; their kamikaze leg attacks always turn my twig ankles into two-liters. And somehow I leave the miniature golf course completely dehydrated, simply swaying a club yields Gulf of Mexico pit stains.
Further, I'm not helping intimacy by countering a girl's pool-bronzed skin with an epic Moses-in-the-desert tan. (Shirtless, I could still pass for wearing a white Hanes V-neck.)
Reflecting on those drawbacks - and to the possible dismay of many dudes - I'd trade a bikini for a beanie most any day. That's not to say I don't drool over certain skirts. It's just more appealing to pull a gal in for a smooch by her scarf ends, even though it's likely I'd mistakenly strangle her. There's something playful and coy about glances from behind upturned hooded sweatshirts - or maybe I'm misreading their attempts to ignore me.
And I don't doubt that fall forfeits summer's abandon; a new semester yields various stressors. If you've got a special someone, the relationship's quality time is dissected by club meetings, group projects, (infidelity) and exams. Yet when schedules finally allow it, autumn provides some fun couple leisure.
After a refreshing hike on the Appalachian Trail, you can wreck the rewards of your exercise with a gluttonous feast at the Home Place.
The chilly evening air is ideal for the messiest of s'mores over bonfires. And you obviously have to challenge friends to hurdle the flames, melting sneakers and singeing hair.
With Halloween approaching, it's almost time for wagon rides at the pumpkin patch. The two of you could probably walk to the field faster, but instead you putter along behind the tractor watching noisy children blow their noses into parents' sweater sleeves. You fight through the snot and screams, though, to find that perfect squash. Together you can then carve Frankenstein or a heart containing your initials if you want it smashed against your door overnight.
You can even break it down to childhood basics. Rake colorful leaves into bushels and go crazy. Toss handfuls at each other, inadvertently stabbing the recipient's eyeballs with the pointed edges. Maybe have a contest for the best pile dive. Granted, the one time I did this, I soared into the mound as a cannonball, delivering blunt trauma to my tailbone. I spent the next few days walking like I was in constant search of a bathroom.
Really, I can narrow this seasonal bias to a simple query: Do you prefer being hot and finding ways to cool down, or feeling frigid and searching for warmth? I cling to the latter, not even contemplating the former. I'd much rather shiver in a blanket cocoon with my mate than hold their clammy hand while we curse an oscillating fan. And I have no qualms about forsaking my family name, opting to share steaming cocoa over an iced Arnold Palmer.
Come to think of it, that fossil still plays golf at 80 years old - I bet he could recommend a good antiperspirant. But sweat is now out of sight.
Where's my flannel?
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