Summertime

But what about the groove that soothes that moves romance

Give me a soft subtle mix

And if ain’t broke then don’t try to fix it

And think of the summers of the past

(Will Smith)

Driving this morning, I notice throughout my neighborhood water flowing from the hydrants. The smell of chlorine fills the air and suddenly I am 16 again, waiting for summer vacation. The smells of chlorine and coconut oil are the only things that can be recalled from long hot days spent embedded in my youth. Blessed to be free from school and longing to be an adult. I dreamed that adulthood would be all hot men and tequila shots. Little did I know. There are no hot men on the horizon, and tequila shots tend to make me hug strangers as I depart from said shot location. And the following morning the mere mention of the word “shot” causes me to run, stumbling to the nearest bathroom. Now I dream longingly of those days of 16, when the world was all lip-gloss and ponytails. I should embrace my adulthood, but I will spend every Saturday, semi-naked, stretched out under the jasmine vines, music pouring from my open windows, dreaming of nothing at all and baking in the summer sun. My own adult version of summer vacation obtained in short intervals and smelling of coconut oil.