Shake it Up

I was on my way back to work from lunch. The country music station was on. A lifelong favorite, I was surprised to find that it was becoming increasingly irritating to me.

I was unable to put my finger on why I was getting aggravated, but then it hit me: Who ARE these people?

These country girls who have time to stand on tailgates and shake it for the forest animals all the time? (Sorry, Luke Bryan, that’s a paraphrase.)

These girls who appear to have no business clothes in their closets—only cutoff jeans on top of bikini bottoms.

These couples who have time to kiss in barns all the time.

These men who somehow manage to have wives who make sure their post-work experience is nothing but a country-fried, radio-blaring, white sundress-wearing good time.

Maybe I’m just bitter because my summers used to entail pretending to live in an apartment complex so I could swim in the community pool.

Maybe I’m just bitter because company dress code implies that I wear suffocating clothing and not shake it for anyone, much less squirrels and trees.

Whatever the reason, I must accept my fate and enjoy the small glimpses of summer instead of dwelling on the tans of summers past.

Then: There was nothing like riding in my roommate’s Jeep, feeling the cool nightly breeze and driving nowhere in particular.

Now: 3rd floor bathroom. Handicapped stall. Plenty of space, cool marble tile and a nice breeze—if you count the spray of the automatic Glade dispenser. You can even hold on like you’re in the Wrangler.

Then: I promised myself I would wear a polka-dot bikini on Spring Break if I did 100 sit-ups a day. And I did.

Now: My Dillard’s one-piece with slimming panels also has an attached skirt. (It’s not as bad as it sounds, I promise).

Then: My part-time paycheck went to Sonic, Maurice’s, Bath and Body Works, and Mi Ranchito. In that order.

Now: When the revenue office lady gave me the total for taxes, I had to think about how to write out such a large amount in word-form. “Hey, lady, do you happen to have a machine that can just type that sucker out for me while I weep in the corner?”

Then: Friends dared me to jump off of a cliff at the lake and videoed me screaming bloody murder all the way down.

Now: I’m occasionally tagged in a horrible candid shot at a baby shower or something with “It’s a boy!” cake dribbling from my mouth.

Then: Being sweaty and hot meant I was getting a TAN.

Now: Being sweaty and hot means this teeny-bopper deodorant that smells like cherry blossoms just isn’t cutting it anymore. Platinum strength, here we come.

It appears that I’m being too hard on my new summer self. There are days that I miss my carefree lifestyle like I miss my red polka dot bikini. There are days that I miss thinking a four-hour work day a few times a week is enough to kill a person.

But I didn’t have Justin. I didn’t have Fiona (bless her shoe-chewing soul). I didn’t have the satisfaction that comes when you work hard to own things.

My Sonic drink may reside on my desk now instead of pool-side, but my heart loves the small moments of summer that occasionally peak out from the day’s monotony.

And that’s enough shaking it up for me, Luke.