Op-Ed
Sweaty Palms and Chafing: An Ode to Summa Time
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Awkward Turtle
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Call me Jared Leto, but I despise spring. It’s partially because joy is spreading faster than Hanna Montana fever, and whenever I see an architecture student smile, I know there’s an English major out there crying just to maintain a cosmic balance. To a certain degree, it’s because Ithaca’s spring is a seasonal skort; look, spring, skorts are a creepy and confusing blurring of categorical boundaries. Don’t be a skort — I don’t appreciate getting a sunburn whilst freezing my ass off. But mostly it’s because spring just isn’t summer, and, if From Justin to Kelly taught me anything, it’s that there’s oh, so much awkwardlicious fun to be had in the summer sun.
Stand aside longer days, rising temperatures, and astronomical data! For this awkward turtle, the real first sign of summer has always been the summer jam videos that provoke unreasonably high summertime expectations. I’ll never forget the first time I saw Will Smith’s Summertime video: I was busting my usual moves in my parent’s bedroom, wearing an oversized Tigger t-shirt, Mickey Mouse Spandex, and a neon green hat tilted to the side as if to say, “This is badass, certified.” I watched alone as Smitty, surrounded by his crew of adoring lady-fans, was kicking back and unwinding to beats that were smoother than Snoop Dogg drinking Bailey’s in velvet. With eyes made starry by the hope of attaining Will Smith’s diet-gangster status that my fellow preteen 3rd generation suburbanites and I admired so, I begged my mom for a block party, complete with tie-dye high-waisted mini shorts, a freestyling DJ, and some dime pieces.
Unfortunately, while the tie-dye station was a hit with the neighborhood moms, and Billy Joel’s Greatest Hits really set a chill tone for the hopscotch tournament, there were no fly hunnies to be found. In fact, the only boy that New York State age laws didn’t prevent me from macking on was Sam from down the street. But, to be honest, he had a propensity to put on lipstick he stole from the Lost-and-Found, and I’m pretty sure he lit his parents’ bed on fire.
LFO’s Summer Girls’ video inspired me to trade in my Mickey Mouse spandies and stuff my fifteen-year-old squatter’s legs into some white jean Abercrombie coochie-cutters. After stealing my sister’s triangle top bikini, I rollerbladed down to the local Wal-Mart in true country-music-festival apparel. And was there a crowd of Crombie-clad teenagers bumping and grinding to a band of three hotties singing borderline maniacal lyrics from the Wal-Mart Rooftops? Absolutely not. Yet another child’s dream ruined by the melodious promises of LFO. I would have felt more uncomfortable, but my attire apparently doubled as Wal-Mart camouflage.
Wandering the hallowed halls of Wal-Mart, I encountered the only summertime trend to incite both my enthusiasm and gag reflex, the blatant abuse of invitation-only apparel. I think we can all agree that the only thing more uncomfortable than dealing with your own chafing is watching someone else (who usually looks like Ron Jeremy ate himself) deal with his. Rule of thumb: if the waves in your thighs can be registered on the Richter scale, shorts might not be your most flattering option. If you prefer banana milkshakes to actual bananas, perhaps steer clear of the banana slings. Simple solution? BMI tests before purchasing bikinis, mini shorts, mankinis, or any clothing item with the prefix “uni.”
The skinny angry girls will be horrified. Yet another fabulously awkward staple of summer, the SAGs should actually be treated kindly, as all they’ve consumed today was a blended drink of Grey Goose, crushed ice, and broken self-esteem.
Besides, they don’t bother me, so long as I’m protected by my unnecessary beach furniture courtesy of SkyMall, SkyRum, and a SkyPhone. One tipsy flight to New Haven, Momma Kath was torn between the tan-through leopard print onesie and the inflatable beach-gazebo that protects your family from those pesky UV-rays. Without realizing one’s function actually negated the other’s, she purchased both. Now my pasty Mother has to bathe in sunscreen before stepping foot on the beach, while the rest of our vampire family has the luxury of concurrent indoors and outdoors relaxation.
By far my favorite summertime tradition is the family reunion. My Irish-side’s reunions are similar to childhood road trips to Six Flags for the annual altar-server field trip: a small group of adults getting trashed off of pre-bloodified church wine while kids who have absolutely nothing in common save proximity stare at each other with the awkward knowledge that God had brought them together. God and alcohol, indeed, brings our family together every year, but modern medicine and our Irish Catholic heritage has combined forces to make the Mahoney reproduction rate double its mortality rate. That’s right kids, my family multiplies faster than the MIT math club, and our longevity rivals that of Cher, the human cockroach.
So, in order to keep track of everybody we’ve begun the custom of wearing nametags that denote our moniker and answer to the inevitable Family Reunion question: “now, which one are you?” But this year, instead of my usual activity of watching my Great Uncle Mick fart dust from the Civil War Era, I spiced up my life* by capturing some family babies to steal and replace their nametags. Instead of “Shannan Scarselletta, failed MC,” I became “Kayleen O’Reily, my first word was ‘Yellow!’”
(*Courtesy of the Spice Girls).
Shannan Scarselletta is a junior. She can be contacted at sscarsellettat@cornellsun.com. Awkward Turtle appeared alternate Thursdays this semester.