I get the August blues. It's not that I want the summer to go on indefinitely – I actually mistrust this season with its deep tans and hype and wine coolers – but every year I am sad to see it go.
I was listening to This American Life's show "Notes on Summer Camp", and I was reminded of the bratty camps I went to as a kid where we never learned to pitch a tent or build a fire, but I came home having learned how to "french" and having memorized the entire Cat Stevens songbook.
Summer camp can brainwash you into thinking things are a good idea. Like applying eyeliner on the inside of your eye and shaving your whole leg. At the end – and I am not sure if this was camp or just the delusion of the season – I cried, heartbroken how I would miss my bunkmates and everything about the camp itself: the mouldy showers; the constant, promising access to boys; the monotonous menus; the Israeli dancing I always sucked at....
Summer camp demands loyalty. You will cry when the busses come to take you home. Home where your bare feet can walk on carpet and the fridge is stocked and you wear clean clothes to go out for chinese food and all your stories and inside jokes about the summer fall flat without context.
But back to summer. I don't care how crap your summer was, come August you can't escape that feeling that something is being taken away. Say what you will about the dog-days, but I am sad the busses are here to take us home.
As soon as the yellow highlights appear on trees, the moon becomes that set-piece large and amber-honey coloured. The bugs die down and now you can spend late nights outdoors with candles and epic conversations. Baskets of peaches sell for a dollar. I become treacly nostalgic. I want to hold everything in my arms. I become embarassing with memories.
Right now I want to keep you up late and tell you long stories about lanyard bracelets and everyone I have ever loved.
