Summer

I am no longer sticky, thank goodness.

I have just stepped out of the shower and put on a T-shirt. The occasional draft of air that drifts through the window is dense but marginally refreshing; tonight is one of the hottest nights I’ve encountered in Boston yet. My pride—that stubborn resolve to fashion myself in my own image—refuses to turn on a fan or turn off the lamp, even though it is rather late. Unfortunately (?), being constantly reminded of other people’s worth forces me to prove my own, mostly to myself. Therefore, I forego sleep for this odd type of self-improvement.

My legs are very smooth (I just shaved them); all the water has now entirely evaporated from my skin, contributing to the cooling effort. The necessity of my comforter, however, is still undeterminable. Fortunately, summer makes dealing with the unpleasant weather bearable, because there are so many fewer other things to deal with and bear.

This feeling of having spare resolve to bear and even seek out unnecessary in-comforts and inconveniences feels foreign. This, and the calm, empty space in my mind through which useless reflections or idle categorization sometimes trot leave me constantly guilty to the memory of frantic, self-serving efficiency in the hazy maneuvering of a traffic-jammed street. On foot, the freneticism of rush hour lane changes easily fade into a lazy country stroll.

Activities normally inaccessible tempt me in this bucolic lifestyle. I have the freedom to choose my multitasks, the luxury of thinking of others; sometimes, I even have the audacity to sit and do nothing but think, look, and feel. In the summer, relaxation feels less criminal.

My father says that this is the way life should be, but maybe that is because his is not. I hesitate to cast an inevitably embarrassing judgement call, and can only conclude that so far, this is only the way that this particular summer has proved to be.

On a similar note, I am 467 pages into “Anna Karenina.”