Summer Sun, Something’s Begun

“God gave us memory that we might have roses in December.”

J.M. Barrie

Summer in New York is unparalleled. The streets empty of the very rich as they flee to the Hamptons, and the fairly rich as they flee to lesser shores. Times Square is a monstrous hell, teeming with gape-mouthed tourists buying the same crap at Toys ‘R’ Us in New York that they can buy at the Toys ‘R’ Us in Blaine, Missouri, but the rest of the city is a flower in full bloom. Ladies step out in cotton sundresses and brightly colored patent leather bags. Every straight guy in the city puts on his khaki cargo shorts. And if you head to the World Wide Plaza and sit down at Blockheads to enjoy a $3 $4 margarita, you will be surrounded by the plunging neon (pastels are so 2010) v-neck tees of the most ripped gays Midtown has to offer.

Every restaurant has outdoor seating; even the ones that have no business with tables on the curbs of busy avenues have lines of anxious people, stuck inside for three seasons and impatient to feel the lightly polluted air of New York City on their faces as they dine. On Friday evening Gigi, Mr. Gigi, the Cheeky Chipmunk, and I headed down to the Financial District to get a little of that air for ourselves. Nothing like a little Mexican food and margaritas (alas, not $4) to start off our weekend right.

It was a magical evening, and especially magical for me. As I was stuck in line waiting for the ladies room, socializing with other hip New Yorkers, the sky opened up on my friends sitting outside. They were all unscathed and relieved that I was nowhere near the moisture, as one raindrop on my head causes me to turn into the Wicked Witch of the West. “I’m frizzing, I’m frizzing…..” Their being spared a night of hearing me whine “What a world, what a world” was a true gift.

As with most nights that are scheduled to end early, we ended up going out to a bar afterwards and hanging out well into the night. There were additions to our party and there were shots and the Mets had a no hitter, which I learned was called a “no-no”, the least cool-sounding sports achievement ever. The night set me up for the perfect hangover the next morning as I ran my errands: not so much that I felt bad, just enough that I felt justified getting two iced coffees over the course of the morning, a morning where the sun shone in a moisture-free sky, leaving my hair unmolested by frizz. These are the summer days that New Yorkers sprint outside for and talk about through the rest of the year, when sleet and snow turn our city grey and icy wind chaps our skin. Even a crazy lady at Starbucks telling me I wasn’t better than her just because I was Snow White and the Huntsman couldn’t dim my mood.

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