Well, That’s Garbage

Summer’s over? Bye, Felicia.

Samantha Secter

Every year when summer packs up and leaves us Canadians, it devastates us. We plead to flocks of passing geese “No! Don’t go!” getting only muffled honks in reply. We thought we had a good thing going, Summer, something special and beautiful…that was so hot.

We can’t bear to pull light jackets and sweaters from storage and instead sniff our beach towels and bathing suits crying:  “It still smells like Summer.”

Go ahead, sweethearts. You cry it out. It’s only natural with loss. Nonetheless I’m going to tell you something you’re not going to believe right now, but that you need to hear. 

As seasons go, girl (and by girl I mean everyone) you can do better.

See, you’re all only thinking of the good Summer times: the backyard bonfires, sunsets, the music festivals where you got to wear jean shorts shorter than your underwear, and the intoxicating kiss of frozen milk products.

But your selective memory is forgetting the bad times.

The veritable bayou created by your thighs and any chair when seated for more than 30 seconds, and the faint butt print of condensation left behind on the seat. The Band-Aid-like ripping of the backs of said thighs getting out of a car with leather seats.

Summer made everyone wear flip flops, the sweat pant of the shoe world, which are only slightly better than walking barefoot on the dusty, dirty, dog feces-covered ground.

It caused tears to flow, and your nose to flow, the roof of your mouth to itch, and your sinuses to swell with its bountiful pollen. It gave you fitful, sticky sleep and woke you up inhumanly early with the sun.

“I don’t care what you say, Jane. I love Summer! With all my heart!”

I know you do. But wake up…Summer doesn’t love you back. If it really loved you, would it give you poison ivy with its itchy, pustule-ish aftermath? Would it send hordes of angry, barbeque-ruining wasps or ticks that burrow into your skin and your dog? Think of Rufus. RUFUS.

And perhaps most heartless…would it create such a thing as “Margarita Burn”? The limejuice in the Margarita, the gloriously boozy symbol of Summer, contains chemicals called furocoumarins. If sloshed onto your skin, they bind to your DNA, then, if exposed to sunlight, cause painful, blistering, scar-leaving 2nd degree burns.

This is 100% real and Bananarama has always known the truth. It is a cru…cru…cruel Summer.

Don’t you see? Summer isn’t worthy of your love.


Soon, when you’ve had some time and you’re ready to love again, choose a season that brings you soup and just wants to hang out and watch movies. Seasons that want you to be comfortable in layers of wool and chunky scarves and won’t make you feel bad about your body by dictating tiny clothes.

Remember, Summer can’t dictate your happiness. You are a strong, confident Canadian.

Oh, and resist the temptation to get back with Summer in February in Mexico. You’re only fooling yourself.

Published in Volume 70, Number 2 of The Uniter (September 17, 2015)

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