Feast or Famine

Summer entices. 

The way she glitters with half closed eyes and hazy visions of sunsets over lakes. The frigid, unapologetic splash of water and ever-present sound of feet hitting ground and laughter tinkling in the background like the bell on a cat's collar. She beckons. With her empty, relaxing days waiting to be filled with equal parts merriment and meditation; her promise of late mornings and even later nights edged with soft liquor and the closeness of friends. 

Summer entices, yet I can't seem to grasp her hand. 

I can spend all day doing nothing, if nothing means reading and listening to the familiar crooning of the Tragically Hip; if nothing means jumping on every shift at the humane society so I have something to do; if nothing means eating snacks just because I'm bored; if nothing means convincing myself that I'm not upset, that I just need a walk, that I'm fine, I'm fine. 

It's frustrating because for the rest of the year I'm so busy that I hardly have a moment to sit down, a moment to myself, but then summer comes around and I have all the moments in the world. Both scenarios are unsatisfactory. I'm grasping for that middle area, that place where I'm busy enough that I don't feel depressed but relaxed enough that I don't have a panic attack. My grandma said to me over the phone, "as I always say, it's either feast or famine." I haven't found that place yet, and maybe that's why I can't quite grasp summer's hand. I'm just holding onto her pinky finger.

Summer is soft skin, dark skies, and fireworks. I lay down staring at my phone, wondering if I should call my friends and if they would even want to hear me complain. Summer is a shout that fills the space, a beaming sun and even brighter smile. I sit on the subway, on my way to the humane society, happy to be going somewhere, sunlight hitting my face and a smile curling on my lips, faint. I feel battered by lofty expectations that have been freshly crushed. 

I used to think that seeing a radio show host's face would shatter the illusion and I wouldn't be able to listen to the show any longer. I would try to imagine what they look like, creating elaborate characters in my head. These characters felt right, they felt real while attached to this person, this disembodied voice. Strangely, nobody ever looks like how they sound. 

Part of me wants to go back to childhood summers. Eating nectarines with mouth wide open, juice trickling down dirty elbows. Pencil drawings of rabbits and strawberries. Birds chirping, owls hooting in the dead of afternoon, well maybe it was the evening when the sun was setting, wind chimes... chiming. Scrunching up my nose as a dollop of cold sunscreen is smoothed over my skin. My grandma cocooning me in bed for my afternoon nap, singing songs and telling stories that I know by heart. It's not simple anymore. Every bone and vein in my body says that it should be, that I'm fine. I imagine a man taking a drag from a joint with the absolute air of nonchalance and musing, "it's a dog eat dog world, man." My fingers slowly type a short text inviting my friends to go to the beach sometime, half expecting them to be busy.

As my grandma always says, it's either feast or famine.