Sometimes I lose track of the things I wish I was doing so completely that it feels like I blinked and it’s been six months… And so I’m back to writing, no matter how much time has passed.
It’s the beginning of August, and we’re in the middle of a second heatwave when stepping outside feels like living inside a hot oven.
It makes me question this anticipation we seem to reserve for summer and the “living to the fullest” mode it’s supposed to bring.
Every year, someone has to say “It’s finally summer!” with an accompanying picture of something summery. I feel like there’s a social obligation to spend the summer happy, active, and “maximising” your time.
By the end of July, all that anticipation usually leaves me feeling inadequate instead.
Because every time someone asks me about my plans, it seems like they expect some exciting answer. And the last thing I want to do in +37 degrees is be outside. Like, hello, at this point staying inside is practically a public-health recommendation.
I spend much of the year waiting for warmth, only to discover that when it arrives, it has no sense of moderation. Sun, tone it down a little, will you?
On days like these, staying inside, I feel slightly guilty for missing “it”. When I go out, I try to pretend I’m not miserable.
There are a few things to be grateful for today, though. First — that this annoyed me enough to pull me out of the writing slump. Second — the laundry dries really fast on the balcony.
— until the next thought.