Y’all, I went running yesterday and did not wear the proper undergarments, and also the inner thighs of my tights ripped as soon as I put them on in a tiny, way-too-hot restroom at my day job. So today I have several violent chafes in the worst possible areas. I took a campus bus to a stop three blocks away because my coochie cannot abide this, not to mention the after effects on my joints. RIP to my lower body after years of ignoring the effects of Walk It Out competitions and circle pits. I used to have certified Megan Knees back in the day, but nowadays I get backaches that have made me call out of work. And y’all want me to go barhopping?!
Sorry y’all, but it’s a wrap on Hot Girl Summers for yours truly. I just can’t do it the way I used to, and honestly, do I want to? I’m not sure I want to feel crushed by large crowds at street festivals, and I certainly don’t want to deal with the heat rashes. I’m also in the very preliminary stages of home buying, and all those bourbon and gingers add up. I need a full set of tires soon, anyway, and no one else is going to buy them for me. And the older I get, the less I can ignore the lasting effects that a wild night out has on my body. My hangovers last for entire days now that I’m in my forties, and there is nothing darker than the serotonin-starved morning after a completely different type of partying. There are no gains associated with any of this pain for me, not anymore.
None of this is to say that I don’t still enjoy drinking or dancing or casual sex or socializing. I had some of the best fun of my life at last year’s Wild Rumpus, and I firmly believe that’s because I watched it from The National bar with my sibling while sharing some small plates. I got to see all the costumes and gags that people had created for no reason other than the delight of the community and the creation of art. My first year at the Rumpus is one for the books because I was told about it on a night out at Go Bar, or some other long-gone haven for freaks, but no one told me it was an event for the entire town. I just assumed it was some rogue parade by local weirdos, and so I over-cinched myself into a cheap corset and smeared fake blood down my thighs and all over my hands. I was Sexy Menstruation! How novel! But then I got downtown only to be surrounded by families dressed as the Flintstones or the Belchers, so I tucked myself as far away from the street as possible, then immediately ran home and changed once the parade was over. Nowadays I don’t have the energy for elaborate costumes, so I just do corpse paint and call it a day.
Reader, please get into some ho shit for me this summer, because I am no longer for the streets. I’m going on vacation with childhood friends next week, and I am currently paralyzed by the pressure of choosing only two books to bring along with me. What if I bring Dirk Gently and Severance but when I get there I want to read Heir to the Empire? These are the kinds of problems I want in my life, if wanting problems was actually a thing. The kind of stuff I look forward to once summer hits are things like less traffic, more parking at Alps Kroger, and the ability to try certain restaurants that stay packed out during the school year. Yeah, I’m that age now, but I love it. I think that Megan Knees Bonita would love me, too. She’d be happy to see me saving money and still tight with my high school crew, and she’d be mind-blown by the concept of choosing peace and calm.
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