The Summer Days that Never Were.
A real good friend of mine just returned from a wild trip to Vegas. I’m changing her name to Misty because of that whole “what stays in Vegas rule”. This friend of mine is 20-something, single, in annoyingly good shape and spent all last week in her bikini hopping between pool parties at big hotels. They actually call these gatherings “dayclubs”, a concept completely lost on me, but from what I understand it’s essentially 1,000 beautiful people huddled in an enormous pool drinking longneck beers and listening to house music. In my mind’s eye, I also picture chicken races with girls propped on tan, greased-up shoulders, lots of woo-hooing and people making very bad decisions in private cabanas. Not my friend though. Even in Vegas…whoa, whoa, whoa she’s a lady.
So Misty comes back and starts telling me all about her trip, including her disappointment that she didn’t hear a particular DJ spin. I empathized, but I also had no idea who the hell she was talking about. It reminded me of what happens every week with my 22-year-old client who’s constantly reporting the cool places he’s been and the hip, well-known people he’s chatting up. I’m always like, “Kid, I don’t have a clue about any of this. Start dropping names like Ronnie Milsap and Burt Reynolds, and then we’ll talk.”
The more my friend described the five crazy days and nights she spent in Vegas the more exhausted I felt, as if it were possible to develop both sun stroke and a hangover by osmosis. I started looking at her pictures on facebook and instagram, looking all adorable and tan in her bikini and oversized sunglasses. Her summer pics are all wild and sexy and mine are like, “I just ate a grilled cheese, y’all!”
But that’s okay. This is something I am very at peace with. I’ve never been a woo-hoo girl. I shudder at the idea of walking around a crowded pool of young hot people in a bathing suit. I am definitely more likely to show off my sandwich than my abs. And yes, I realize that without the sandwich, I’d probably be more excited about my abs, but that’s not really the point.
I never went in on a Jersey Shore or Hamptons share. I’ve never been propped up on someone’s shoulders at an outdoor concert. I never did Burning Man. I did go to Bonnaroo once but that’s only because my friend put us up on his sleep-by-numbers bed in an air-conditioned RV. And the truth is, I don’t feel like I’ve missed out on anything in terms of summer fun. I traveled around a little bit. I spit out watermelon seeds. I wore some floppy hats and plenty of sunscreen. I did summer the best way I knew how.
But you know what I am starting to regret?
I still haven’t recreated “Shag”.
You don’t know “Shag”?
Hold on. I’m pausing for reaction. My reaction is disgust.
“Shag” is one of the greatest summer movies ever-ever-ever. Four southern belles defy their parents and hop in a convertible because it was their last weekend together and they didn’t feel like going to Fort Sumter and touring goddamn colonial homes. They wanted to go to the beach! And meet boys! And go to wild parties and dance! Their friend Carson was about to marry the dullest boy alive, but before that she needed to say one of the greatest lines ever mumbled in a Southern accent, “Y’all, I’m wild. I guess I’ve always been wild–I just didn’t know it.”
Vegas pool parties hold no appeal for me, but a summer of shag dancing at the beach in the Carolinas? Hell yeah!
This summer’s over. But next summer? I’m grabbing some girlfriends and looking into some hotels at Myrtle Beach.
Summer after that…grilled cheese ON A STICK.
Y’all, I’m wild. I guess I’ve always been wild–I just didn’t know it.