#8 - Summertime, and the living is wheezy

Summertime, and the living is wheezy

10/27/03

Summer is the life of the party.

Until her arrival, things are quiet. Hopeful, but reserved. Her name is heard in hushed conversations like a rumor, as if her visit was somehow in doubt. Then she arrives, a burst of warm air into the cold-floored room, bright hues bringing life to the gray corners of the apartment. Everyone gathers around her while she regales the crowd with witty quips and stories of sun, sand, and improbably colorful blossoms, the fawning listeners nodding along like a self-appointed inner circle. Her voice fills every room, pretending that she's just another guest but knowing that the vast majority of the attendees are here for her alone, and if she chose not to come, they'd find where she was and follow her there.

Yet there are some of us who are not fooled by Summer's flagrant flamboyance. While she holds court in the living room, we stand in the kitchen, refrigerator door open to cool the room, unconvinced. She's loud, she calls attention to herself with a tedious enthusiasm, more performance than mere presence. While her beauty is undeniable, she is not our type, so those of us in the kitchen drain our beers, sneak off to the porch for a smoke, and hope that she and her army of sycophants will tire of the venue and move to a party on a lower floor. Her adorers encourage her to stay, basking in her glow, filling themselves with her essence. They make up songs about her. They make fools of themselves and do not care, because they know the pictures they take of themselves with Summer's arms draped around them will be the most beautiful pictures in their albums.

In the kitchen, we're all waiting for Autumn.

You might assert that this makes us no better than the pawns to Summer, simply slaves to different master, but such an accusation misses all of the subtlety. Summer is inane action movies, all flash and no plot; Autumn is Oscar contenders, the best scripts presented by the best actors. Summer is lemonade, somehow simultaneously too tart and too sugary; Autumn is cider, an organic synthesis of sweetness and bite. Autumn is quiet---she doesn't blather while her legions listen obediently, but instead engages us in conversation. Our affection is more subdued as well. True, we all adore her, even emulate her superlative fashion sense in our own sweaters and scarves; but ours is an adoration based on respect, not the cabin-fever lust that Summer mistakes as courtship.

But this year, the party has been frustrating. Summer had said her goodbyes, so Summer's suitors turned on the heat, smoked cigarettes around the furnace vents and kvetched that they probably wouldn't see her again for a long time and that Autumn's bitchy step-sister Winter was probably coming up the stairs as they spoke. The rest of us reveled in the quiet that comes with Summer's exit. Autumn, smelling deliciously of wood smoke and the first ferment of leaves, was drinking her Oktoberfest beer when who should come through the door but Summer. Like the drunk you couldn't usher out, she was back, drowning the room with her so-called radiance while Autumn patiently waited to start her story. Summer's fans immediately celebrated again, dancing around her, exposing their skin like horny fools, while the rest of us awaited an explanation for the intrusion. We waited for what felt like days, but no explanation came. Finally, we endured her goodbyes yet again, and Autumn again approached the spotlight.

What Summer doesn't seem to notice is that while her company is begged for, it is rarely appreciated. Those who await her can never have enough of her, whining when she disappears for even a moment. They claim to value her, but what they really enjoy is how she makes them feel about themselves. Autumn, on the other hand, is cherished by her friends for every moment that she's there, and without expectation. Her visits are often short, sometimes imperceptible, and her minions have long ago learned to enjoy whatever time they can spend with Autumn.

But it's true, Winter can be a real bitch.

©2003 wpreagan