Summer 2018 was not the most exciting or adventurous of my
life, but it was unquestionably one of the most relaxing. And relaxation, I’ve
learned, is underrated and invaluable in its own right.
So what did I do? I wrote. I reserved at least an hour on
each day off-and every weekend-to write something, usually a
dispatch-from-my-life essay, one of which I might actually share with others
(one of which I definitely won’t). I learned that there’s value in writing for
myself, without seeking profit or clicks; in fact, that might be the purest
form of creation there is. Regardless, it was cathartic. Writing, for me, is
always the cheapest and most readily available form of therapy around.
I re-explored some of my favorite places, first discovered
three years ago, the last summer during which I didn’t grind at a second job
for travel cash. I wandered through two state parks with no set agenda,
rediscovering my favorite parts of each (the little library in the woods at
one, the waterfalls at another), savoring my solitude even among crowds of
people. I stopped attending church years ago, but I always feel close to God
when I’m alone in nature. (Favoring, like Emerson, a church in the woods.)
I spent four relaxing days with my family in Florida, my
time equally spent lounging on the couch with a book and lounging on a float in
the pool. On the few occasions that I ventured beyond the backyard, I indulged
in authentic Mexican cuisine (and a massive margarita) and treated my sister
and nephew to a pontoon canal tour that wasn’t as scenic as I’d hoped (we saw a
variety of birds but no alligators) but worth the experience of cruising on a
beautiful lake on a beautiful day, and I made a fool of myself–and had a blast–futilely
trying to hit a little white ball at Topgolf.
I spent my last afternoon in Florida sprawled on a pool
float and, despite slathering myself in sunscreen, acquired a painful sunburn
on my thighs that made the following day’s travel home uncomfortable.
(Thankfully I had ample time between flights because I wasn’t operating at my
usual speed.) A strange thing happened on my flight home. I was settling into
my aisle seat (30C) when a middle-aged gentleman approached and asked if I had
30C. He did too. My first thought was that I’d mistakenly sat in 29 or 31, or
maybe I was on the wrong flight, or maybe he was. My heart palpitated as he
notified the flight attendant, who took my boarding pass and spent several
minutes conferring with my fellow seatholder while I panicked, fearing that I’d
be kicked off an overbooked flight. Finally, the attendant told him he would
find him another seat and returned my boarding pass, jokingly saying that I’d
“passed the test.” Woo-hoo!
The rest of the summer was uneventful. I read voraciously, I
watched many movies, and I obsessively played my favorite dreampop bands–Beach
House, Wild Nothing, and Mazzy Star–the best soundtrack for a lazy, hot and
sunny summer, the most summery summer I’ve had in many years, almost like the
ones of my childhood, the good old days, before adult responsibilities (i.e.
work) forced me to grow up.
