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| the coast line at La Jolla, CA |
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| Coney Island beach front, NY |
I was in a car with some friends last week in downtown
Traverse City and we parked in front of this clothing store advertising every
token beach brand you could think of—Roxy, Vans, Billabong, Volcom—everything
was in the window. I said, without much thought, and a Vana White hand gesture,
“Well, this is who I went to high school with..” One of the people in the car
responded, “Not in Bloomington…” I scoffed, “Um. Nope.” “San Diego?” Wrong
again. I finally said, now that the comment had become a conversation,
“Virginia Beach, I went to high school in Virginia Beach.”
And it’s true. That was two years ago and, for me, three
addresses ago. It’s hard to keep up with a prior military brat and her very
moveable family. In the last three years I have had five addresses. No wonder
people just email me. It’s like the real world version of Where’s Waldo.
It occurs to me, that due to various circumstances, I rarely
work during the summer. Three years out of college, and here I sit on a rather
warm day out on my parents’ sunroom (sun porch? Enclosed room with windows all
around? Florida room?) on a Tuesday afternoon, in between jobs and life
moments, yet again. I consider it very lucky. I love breathers. I love having
time to reflect and spend time with family. It’s fun. I dig cycles and working
for 10 months and then having time to travel and prepare for whatever comes
next suits me. (In two years when I actually work in an office I’ll let you
know what happens…)
That being said, my summer wardrobe harkens back to my inner
beach child. Now, ask me even now and I will tell you I refuse to be titled a
beach kid. In the nine years my permanent address was twenty minutes from the
Atlantic Ocean I can count the number of days I spent at the beach on one hand.
(It has to do with bathing suits.) But living at the beach is as much about
culture as it is about sand and sun. My Mom grew up at the Jersey Shore, so I
guess you could say sand and salt run in my veins.
I usually consider myself an urban dweller. I prefer the
concrete jungle and human constructed parks. I am most myself roaming the
streets of New York and if I never own a car or mow a lawn I will consider
myself a successful adult.
Even still, something about the summer brings me back to the
beach. And here I am, slightly loose light jeans, wide V-neck shirt, wayfarers,
and sandals. Most of my closet consists of dark denim, tailored skirts,
patters, and layers. Switching to summer brings out the plethora of blues and
greens, Urban Outfitters dresses, vintage sandals, loose light jeans, and my
new favorite fedora…all I’m missing are thrift store overalls (which if you
find for me I’ll love you forever). There’s a juxtaposition somewhere in my
closet, the urban girl channels her beach-like past.
And I get it. It’s summertime after all, everyone’s wardrobe
shifts. You lose the plaid, and flannel, the cashmere and wool; you shed layers
and shift to longer days and campfire nights.
So maybe it’s just that now, the summertime is my season of
nostalgia. It’s when I remember the kids who skipped class because the surf was
too good, it’s when I crave the thrashing of ocean waves and I could seriously
eat a s’more with every meal. I have less a desire to wear make up and want to
smell of sunscreen and coconut instead of my go to Chanel perfume.
Maybe now I am just finally starting to get why people
generally like summer as a season. It’s a time to be different, to act
different, to enjoy the slower pace and to think different.
One day I’ll trade in my lazy summer days for lazy summer
weekends. But for right now, I’m thankful I get one more summer to pretend to
not the beach kid.
I guess it’s true, you can take the kid from the beach, but
you can’t take the beach from the kid.
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| Rehoboth Beach, DE |
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| Lake Michigan |
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