Summer NOT in the City.

  • Drinking: 9,280,346th cup of coffee. Moving to a strange town seems to have given me stress-induced TMJ issues, so I am completely baked on muscle relaxers (aka my legs feel funny and I’msotired. not the fun kind).
  • Wearing: Boot-cut denim (did I mention I hate boot-cut denim? As opposed to skinny jeans, which I am very much accustomed to wearing but are not-so-much work appropriate, they require flats and make this hair-raising swish, swish, swish sound as you walk), coral silk blouse with ruffled collar (banana), and gold sandals (flat. see note on boot-cut jeans), in an attempt to fit in with this place’s ultra-casual vibe (yes, I can do ultra-casual. But my ultra-casual is more along the lines of jersey-knit harem pants and loose-fitting racer-backs, which somehow seem even less professional to me than everyone else’s jeans/shorts and T-shirts. Therefore, I am completely confused as to how I should dress, and usually end up in some whacked-out combination of heels, a pencil skirt or dress pants, and a men’s undershirt. Dear me).
  • Listening to: Losing Keys

The days seem like they’ll never end. They’re getting even longer, I know they are, and the sunsets–they’ve got to be getting shorter. I used to drive right through them this time of night, but now, it feels as though it’s sun, sun, sun, and then wham! Darkness. Summertime, it’s strange to have you and not anything familiar to come along. No bathing suit shopping, or wearing for that matter. No staying out late, until you’re all covered in a mist of balmy nighttime air and sea salt. No soaking up the moments of reuniting with friends while they’re all home from school–giddy with the knowledge that you don’t have much time. No summertime seafood, margaritas, Jack Johnson, the list could go on.

Summertime spent not in the city. It’s pretty weird, cheri.

But I’ve got a secret.

There are the tinsiest bits of city tucked away in this town. You’ve just got to find them.

I’ve mapped out my getaways, and perform them quite ritually—gingerly and not too often, for fear that I’ll wake up from the dream.

It starts with a gourmet restaurant where you can order truffle French fries and crème brûlée. Then, drive the (very few) blocks of downtown in circles, playing music that 1. Reminds you of a night on the town, or 2. No one in the area has ever possibly given a try. Making the most of an opportunity to dress up is key, and should include wearing things that won’t hit the red clay of South Georgia for another decade or so. Even something as simple as switching from a toilet bowl of a grocery store (that rhymes with Barfies) to Winn-Dixie—a market so neatly stocked with deli-made sushi and whole-wheat organics you could stand in front of the ample supply of French cheeses, close your eyes, and almost pretend the population’s risen above 20,000.

Yes, cheri, these are my hidden treasures—the little joys that get my by. And sometimes, if you get lucky, you have a visiting friend for a weekend who knows just exactly what you’re feeling, and she’ll cross the empty sidewalks right there with you, and indulge you in another fantasy: that there’s someone in this town who really, truly gets you.

{1.Charleston, May 2010, by me 2. Me & AO getting fancy in Americus, clearly by her}