It’s the thick of the summer. July somethingth. I dunno. 25th? Dates have sort of lost their meaning in the quarantining.

I looked at my face the other day and thought, “Ooh. What is wrong with my skin? Is the lighting weird in here or something? I look odd.” And then it hit me: I had gotten some sun. I wouldn’t call it a tan. No. But it was some sun. I was a shade more golden than I normally am. I am a pale gal. My legs are so pale that people would ask me if I was wearing tights or stockings. I wasn’t. Just have some dang pale legs. My face is the same way: very pale and translucent in places. You can actually see through my skin sometimes, with little blue veins making an appearance. I’m might actually be a cave salamander or one of those aliens from Mars Attacks. When I was a smoker, my skin was downright cadaverous. Do you know the photo challenge that ask the viewer, “hot dogs, or legs?” It’d be more like “chalk stubs, or legs?” for me and my pale ilk.  Anyhow, it startled me to see that I had some color in my cheeks. I shook my fist at the sky and growled, “Summmmmmer!”

It’s not that I like or dislike being pale, but I’ve been taught since birth to use “An SPF sunscreen of 15 or above every day,” to prevent aging, thus any sign of sun means my sunscreen has failed me. I’ve used sunscreen since I was 15, and I’m still aging, so I feel lied to. I had hoped that the age-defying effects of sunscreen might mitigate the age-inducing effects of all the Camel Special Lights that I smoked. Like, one tan ages you 15 cigarettes, so if you prevent one tan, you can smoke 15 cigarettes. I think they cancelled each other out.

These days, I’m off the smokes, still on the sunscreen and I now I wear a hat as well. I feel so very middle-aged. My current fave summer outfit consists of a modest calf-length dress (either in solid white or blue prairie flowers) and a white straw hat. I call it the “Nicole Kidman escapes from a cult and goes to a tea-party” look. A friend told me of a lady she knew whose wardrobe consisted entirely of caftans and no shoes. This woman might be my hero, as she has given me goals. I one day aspire to wear only one thing. It might be dresses. I love a dress. I love the breeze. I pity men who don’t wear dresses because you’re missing out on some serious ventilation. Scottish guys were on to something with those kilts, fellas.

Besides dresses, I love summer because I love to swim. Or at least I used to love it. As a parent, our family visits to any body of water fill me with anxiety. What if Boychild drowns? What if I drop him in the water? What if a lake monster eats him? They’ve been seen around these parts. Our current lake is fairly safe, but it does have a rocky shore. Here’s my impression of me walking into the lake “Ow, f*ck! Ow, f****ck! Ow, ow ow. Okay.” Despite my anxiety, we’ve been taking Boychild to the lake most every day. He’s found snail shells, made friends (more anxiety here- Do we know these moppets? Do they have the COVID? What are they hiding?) and has begun to love the water just like his ma and pa. I adore watching him talk to other kids. He doesn’t have a shy bone in his body and he just talk talk talks to kids big and small about whatever. It’s inspiring. And also terrifying because we don’t wear masks in the water, yet Boychild insists on interviewing everyone in the lake like he was Oprah or something.

Side note: is there anyone more excited that a mom who has just spotted a family of ducks swimming in the lake? “Look, Banjo!!! LOOK! LOOK AT THE BABY DUCKS!! OH MY GOD! BABY DUCKS! Sarah, Banjo come LOOK! LOOK AT THOSE BABY DUUCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKSSS!”

Other fave summer things: harvesting stuff from the garden, not scraping 3 inches of snow off my car, fresh strawberries, and riding around with my windows down (and my system up. lol.). I also love watching my little boy get a farmer’s tan. I love it when he smells like sunscreen and wants to stay up late to watch fireflies. I love the smell of grills aflamin’. I love how warm weather makes all the frosty Vermonters happy and slightly melty. I kind of don’t want it to end.