I used to think summer was the best time of year, and as a kid, it really was, I guess. There was no school for two whole months; it was warm, we had a pool, the days were long, and we spent sun-up to sun-down outside playing.

Since my dad was a teacher, he had summers off, too, which I think may have fucked me up when it comes to work – that could be a whole post on its own, so I won’t get into it here – so summers meant travel.

Every summer, we camped at Lake SanAntonio, we visited my grandparents in Washington, went to the beach, Disneyland, Knott’s Berry Farm, Dodger Games, zoos, and anything else you can think of. We also went to Florida for Christmas one year, and Hawai’i the following summer. In 1985, my grandpa rented two houseboats on Lake Powell, and the whole family spent a week cruising around the desert oasis.

I’ve often said that my life peaked when I was eight because, well, it did. The first eight years of my life were crammed with a lifetime of experiences, so I guess it’s good that I got them in early because I have never and will never be able to afford them as an adult.

I suppose that’s why I grew to dislike summer. As an adult, summertime is nothing but heat and unattainable expectations. There are so many things I want to do, but no time or money to do them, so by September every year, I feel like I wasted the whole season.

So, this year, I’m entering summer with my expectations tempered. I’m not making plans or getting my hopes up. If I end up doing something cool, it will be an extra special event because happiness = reality – expectations.