Whatever happened to the summers of our youth? Where went the long nights full of sweet promise, the buzz of air conditioners and insects drowning out the call of responsibility with their needling drone? Sitting in a dark park, tepid beer pooling on the ground half-illuminated by a distant halogen light, encircled by insects; like electrons with legs and wings, we would mourn the lack of adventure, all the while engaged in the wild adventure of pre-adulthood. Ripe with hormones and the dull throb of an alcohol-soaked ego, we’d press our luck in love, only to be shot down – like all those mosquitoes we so instinctively swatted to death. After hours of this, of this pure and joyful boredom, we’d walk or drive back home, weaving with exhaustion, only to repeat the performance the next night and night after. We’d drop off to sleep as the sun was coming up and sometimes if we hadn’t completely blown it, we would fall asleep in a crowded bed.
There were also those regretful summer nights, those nights where hearts were rendered into shambles and friendships were tested and sometimes broken. The white light of fury, mixed with shame and jealousy is a heady mixture indeed, and if accompanied by those spirits whose sole purpose is to embolden, disaster was often a step away. But tragedy, both large and small, insignificant and horrendous, never struck our band. The chaff blew off, and what was left was only the original set of hands, hardly worse for wear and admittedly, hardly wiser. But our numbers pared down over time, with ambition and the bliss of love taking precedence over late nights, slicked in sweat, talking big talk, and dreaming of larger things.
But that’s not to say we’ve completely stepped into the weighty world of adults, as we’re still as reckless and unencumbered in many the same ways we were when we had to beg for permission to stay out until midnight. But, once you’ve become married, it’s a harder to find the motivation to run wild in the streets, kicking over garbage cans and mailboxes. To say that such behavior is also unbecoming of a productive member of sociery should go without saying. But we rebel in other ways – by walking into a room and letting everyone know that we’ve arrived uninvited and that we plan to stay. Such nights are still the occasional occurrence in these summers of our young adulthood – but gone is the destruction and anarchic vibrancy of our crowd – an arrest now is no longer grounds for bragging rights, but rather, embarrassment and shame.
So it’s become clear that summer nights no longer contain the possibility for an explosion of youthful exuberance, aided by testosterone and alcohol, but now are merely like any other night, except hotter and more humid. And as much as it saddens me to say so, I’ve grown to love the nights of the other three seasons, but as much as spring, autumn and winter may tempt me with their own individual qualities, none ever could claim to be the season of teenage wildlife, on the prowl for a kiss or entertainment, no matter how base. And now, as July swings into August, I’m reminded of how only a few years ago, I played party to marauding gangs, intent upon self-abuse and destruction. Now, I’m a step close to maturity, with less hair on my head and a desire to drown in my own sad remembrances of a time when life seemed simpler and the word nostalgia never passed my lips.