It’s humid again. Big surprise there.
Andrew told me this morning that I hate summer. And he’s right. I like the ideaÂ of summer. Spring hits and I start to looking forward to sitting outside, reading a classic novel, sipping some fruity concoction, but then reality hits harder and all I can stand to do is open the door for the dogs to go outside and occasionally peek into my mostly wilted garden. I don’t want to sit outside and enjoy the weather. I don’t like sweating. I don’t like melting. I don’t like it when my legs stick to one another and, around here, that’s what summer is all about. It’s about sweating and sun-burnt grass that crunches under your feet, air so thick with humidity you can almost swim through it.
As it turns out, I fucking hate summer.
Realizations like these fascinate me. I’m astounded. How did I not know, after 26 years of life and countless days sweating it out in the sun, that I hate summer? What the hell took me so long? Why do I keep looking forward to summer? Why have I convinced myself that I like it?
It makes me wonder: Have I been so wrapped up in discovering REALLY BIG AND IMPORTANT things about myself that I’ve totally skipped over the little things that make me, me? Like my favorite color. It’s green, but I didn’t decide that until about 2 years ago. As a kid, I couldn’t tell you what my favorite color was. I didn’t have one. I liked blue and green and purple and red and so on and so forth. I don’t have a favorite food, or a favorite alcoholic beverage, or a favorite movie or song. So far, I’ve gotten to favorite color. That’s it for the favorite department! Color me undecided on everything else!
In life, I like order. I like plans and lists and schedules. Everything needs to be decided and defined. But when it comes to me, when it comes down to who I am, definitions are out. I can’t define myself. Or rather, I don’t want to. I don’t want to be this or that. I ride the line. I don’t have a favorite. I don’t want to choose. I don’t want to decide.Â I want to be everything and nothing, different, sometimes opposing, parts of a whole.
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with this. There’s no rule book for life that says you must have favorites or that you have to define yourself using a 74 topic, 12-point scale. I just think it’s neat, how each time I learn something new about myself I get firmer in my belief that I’m undefinable. I’m not one thing. I’m a million things and undeniablyÂ in between on everything. I love steak, but crave vegetarianism. I proudly serve in the military, but, at the end of the day,Â I’mÂ still a tree-hugging hippy. I love defining plans, but hate defining myself.
Ultimately, I guess I love little discoveries. I love learning that I don’t like eggplant or that I hate summer or that capers are one of my most favorite things to toss in a pasta dish. These little things give me a clearer picture. They don’t bring me closer to a definition (which I don’t really want, anyway), but they do help me to paint a bigger and brighter picture of who I am today.