When I was 12, I wore the same three t-shirts all summer long. And I seldom washed my hair, since I was spending every day happily dive bombing old ladies at East Hills Swimming Pool.
I suppose I should be embarrassed by such things.
Even now, though, a half day into my 49th summer, I am wearing the same clothes that I wore yesterday. And I have been on two bike rides since then. This morning, I have yet to run a brush through my happily matted hair, even though I took Allison and a friend to cheerleading practice an hour ago.
(It's possible there is something of a haute-couture rebel inside me, a person who actually wants to get caught in wrinkled, stained clothing.)
I'm also kind of glad our air conditioner is broken, because there's something terribly sad about going into a hermetically-sealed home, with all of that nature trapped on the outside. Sure, it'd be nice not to put on deodorant just before bed, but there's also something mighty nice about the 5:22 wake-up call from Mr. Cardinal just outside the window each morning.
Frankly, I was glad Mr. Cardinal called this morning, because I was having a bad school dream, one in which I was cussing, nonstop, regardless of the topic or the audience. I was like Ralphie's dad in "A Christmas Story," weaving strings of profanity from one end of the school to the other. And I was pretty sure I was about to get a talking to.
Who can explain dreams, really? And why do we continue to ask Freud, who worked with decrepit people and used them as the basis for normalcy? He would say that all that swearing was really, really sexy. Granted, I'm sweating, but it's the humidity, man!
Even the big, lumbering fly that just snuck through my open door can't harsh my mellow today. He and his B-52 butt can enjoy a freebie in this normally no-fly zone of mine.
That's just how good this infant summer already has been.
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