The Shape of Summer…
I have never had outside space before. The box in storage marked “Garage (HA) Puppy (HAHA)” is full of contents previously stored in a tiny rolling island cupboard in the kitchen.
Now that I have a door that opens to the outside, you best believe it is accessorized like the back patio at your finer chain restaurants. The stripey umbrella makes me happy. And also a little like I should be ordering an appetizer combo platter.
Sometimes we keep the nicest things outside.
I’m being taunted. The Bro posts a photo of Oregon in the morning (photo credit: shamelessly stolen, that’s what you get for giving it to the Zuckerbergs)…
Ryan’s mom sends a photo of the beach in Florida…
And I’m counting down the two weeks until we leave for both. Target, you guys. Okay, family THEN Target.
I suppose I can keep myself occupied in the meantime. It IS going to be clear and beautiful today, and they DO keep the fancy laying-out chairs next to the hot springs…
I cleaned the house yesterday, I have three books on my clicky, and WEEKEND.
You bet we’ve already played “Walking on Sunshine” and “Good Vibrations.”
It’s a Radio Beach Party!
(And that URL? Will stream our radio shows (to the European areas we broadcast to) starting June 1st.)
I’m in an independent film about bicycles, sushi, and getting caught in the rain.
They wanted the other Zooey, but she was busy.
Bicycle videographer. Take two. ACTION!
What happens when something gets good? Well, like the old proverb, it comes to an end. September 18th was my end. End of summer. And with a last hoorah at the beach and a celebratory bike ride, I closed out the summer of 2011.
Uh. Whose idea was it to do a duathlon and then go on a 30-mile bike ride? — Zoë Stagg
That would be us. No, we aren’t thrill seekers, adrenaline junkies, just two people with a goal. That goal? Lunch. Lunch with style. Sushi within eye shot of the leaning tower of Pisa.
But first? We had to get there…
GPOYW: The “I Wouldn’t Trade a Single Second of this Summer for Anything in the Galaxy,” Edition.
I learned how to swim with my head underwater. I learned how to be a fish out-of-water. I learned how to be comfortable in the costuming required to do so. And I met someone who wants to do all of that, with me.
The summer went swimmingly, indeed.
Sarah Dessen, Along For the Ride.
Book #13, and read smack in the waning days of the season…I don’t know if I want to remember. There are fuzzy flashes of “being inside,” and “dark until the third hour of the show.”
Sigh. Cue Sandy and Danny.
Yes, I did. I stared down God’s water, put my face in it, and swam where I couldn’t touch the bottom.
GOD’S WATER. Not a pool. The kind with fishcritters and weird slimies and…okay, in the 37 words I know, one of them is “shark.”
I don’t know if the word is also part of a kid’s game but they kept saying it.
But squali aside, I put my face in the Ocean/Sea/Big Salty and kicked and did the arms all at the same time. I swam from the there-to-here below, twice.
And I realized something very important.
I do not like putting my face in the water. Not at all. I have no gills, I get claustrophobic the second the water closes in on my ears, and furthermore, I won a 4th place ribbon in the backstroke in the summer of ‘87.
Backstroke. The one where you get to breathe as humans are intended to.
That settled, I found a nice flat rock and read my book. Hey. I swim Victorian-style. The water covers everything from the neck down.
GPOYW: The “I Accomplished a lot This Summer” Edition.
It sounds wry — but it’s not. You don’t imagine that bravery and comfort can coexist, but they do. And I have the tan parfait of both, marching in retreat across my rearview.
I started the season in a 20,000 Leagues one piece. Yesterday I went to the beach in two pieces held together by fishing line. And was blithely, perfectly fine.
This country is good for you. It’s not the wine or the olive oil or the tomatoes — let science work on those gems. It’s the ease with which everyone just IS. Girls don’t wear swimsuit tops until they’re old enough to need them, and women don’t wear them if they don’t feel like it. People wear bikinis and Speedos regardless of how much or how little they look like the model on the tag. And nobody cares. Nobody pays the slightest bit of attention. If you’ve spent time worried or insecure about you look in any census of pieces, let me prescribe this: one summer in Italy. You’ll be cured. I promise.
Because after all, it turns out the sun hits every body the exact same way.