And this will be the summer of love. I will tell you why. This will be the first summer in eight years for spending every day, arm in arm with my husband, sharing meals, walking the dogs, talking. Because this will always be remembered as the summer my husband lost his job. And while this will also be the summer of great stress, putting in longer hours, flailing in the sudden role of bread-winner, I know that in the end, I am only the winner of tiny loaves. Muffins really. Mini-muffins. There is no point in worrying about being the muffin-winner, when time stretches on ahead of you, full of the one person you have always missed the most, despite sleeping in the same bed. I cannot help but smile, in the face of everything, when I see it for the gift it really is. This will be the summer of endless possibilities. And manifest destiny. This will be the summer where the big 3-0 looms ever closer, and I give up caring about what happened to my butt, or what it looks like in a bikini. This summer, there will always be fresh flowers on the nightstand, no matter how tight it gets. Because the hydrangea, who had a hunch, are kindly working on a few hundred blooms for us. This summer, I will wear gingham. I will whistle, despite poor whistling skills. I will daydream about avocado. I will give my dogs bellyrubs.
I have decided that this will be the summer of teen romance novels. This summer, my house will be a wreck, and I will choose whisky and lemonade over mopping and clean feet. I will keep a bag packed of beach-related things at all times, and suggest trips to the coast at random. And by suggest, I mean demand. This summer I have decided to enjoy the sweat that beads on my upper lip and the underwire of my bra. To embrace it as part of the heat and humidity that I have decided not to complain about. That will be the hardest part. As a pale person, I am hardwired to complain about the heat. This will be the summer I sit on the back stoop in my nightgown to enjoy a midnight popsicle. And I will enjoy it. Every second. This will be the first summer that I will do it right. I will channel my eight year old self, the last self who actually enjoyed months June through August, who lived for green chlorinated hair, morning swims, watermelon and root beer floats for dinner, impervious to the 120 degree heat of her childhood landscape.