Lazy, Hazy, Lousy, And Too Short

My daughter asked me just last week about the piles of books in my bedroom: "Have you finished them? Plan to put them away?"

"They're my summer reading," I told her. "Part of it." I waved toward the basket of books close by my bed and the ones on my night table, so precariously balanced that one clumsy reach for water and they go tumbling. Suddenly forlorn, I confessed: I've finished two. Neither of us mentioned that summer is already two-thirds over.

Ah, summer. Summertime. Both words conjure up romance, adventure, ease, time slowed, time found - a world unto itself with starry nights and fun, sun-spilled days. Then why does it so often disappoint? I'll tell you why. Your family turns into the Hatfields and the McCoys. Summer movies are made for the brain-dead. Picnics are sauna baths. And whoever came up with the idea that cooking outside was anything more than a fire hazard?

Sure, I can wax nostalgic about the pleasure of homemade peach ice cream or the texture of fresh fig on my tongue, the beauty of heat shimmering above a sidewalk or a cornfield, the swoon resulting from a whiff of gardenias and honeysuckle and the sheet contentment of lying on a pallet counting stars. But that doesn't keep away the letdown feeling that summers aren't as I'd envisioned them.

Often these visions originate in childhood, a time when summers work great. So does a belief in Santa Claus. Yet, while Santa disappears pretty quickly, our fantasies of summer stubbornly persist. My, word, how they do: We'll read those books, exercise more, eat healthy foods, become serene, have more fun. All this will be possible because we'll let our usual cares, loosen our normal routines. And that letting go will free us up for a magical time. I'm not talking about just vacation, but about the entire summer - for life, we believe, will quiet down, which in Washington is somewhat true. There aren't as many cars, and restaurants aren't buzzing. Even before Congress adjourns, we're making our way, ant-like, toward beaches to begin that hooey about beach reading list in any other season.

If you do happen to find yourself on a beach with said book, chances are you have to keep your eyes on the children. That, or you are slathering yourself with sunscreen - or should be unless you're a fool. For years none of this stopped me from imagining myself as Nicole Diver in F. Scott Fitzgerald's "Tender Is the Night," pearls slung down the back of my swimsuit while someone else watches my exquisitely behaved children.

I gave up this pretty picture because beaches have become too hot for pearls. Weather, in general, is hotter than it was when I was a child. My hair frizzes more, a condition only becoming on those under 25. My friends with fine, straight hair say theirs droops, and this look doesn't work either.