Summer. It turns me upside down. Summer, summer, summer. It’s like a married blow clown.

Are those the words? I’ve never been sure. But then, I never know what to expect from anything associated with summer, that most glorious of seasons.

Close your eyes and think of summer. Wait—I guess it would be hard to keep reading if you had your eyes closed. Sorry. Just try to picture a summer day in your head. I’m guessing all you see is sunshine and lots of people turning brown.

You see pools and beaches and squashed lightning bugs. You hear baseball bats rattling on the pavement and little kids screaming in pain from skinned faces.

In general, you picture yourself with your feet up on the picnic table of life.

But allow me to scare the pants off of you. About three years ago I was at a July picnic with a bunch of drunk teachers from my old high school. I noticed Mr. Dermody had a load of Taste of Chicago cups in his windbreaker pocket. It seems everyone appreciates free dishes.

Anyway, I said something about how nice it must be to hang around Taste of Chicago all day. His response was one that will stick in my mind forever—”Yeah, teaching is the only job in the world where you still get three months off for summer.”

I mean, I lost sleep for a week over that one. I began to think about how many summers of relative laziness I had left before I joined the Real World—the one that works inside on 90-degree days and lives for weekends in Lake Geneva.

During this time of emotional heck, I actually considered being a teacher so I could still have my summers off. Then I remembered the few times I tried babysitting. I usually ended up beating the kids in frustration.

So teaching is out. Like most college students, I’m trapped—my summers are numbered. Soon there will be no more Julys of four to eight hours of labor and 12 hours of playing. Soon, I’ll be coming home from a job at a time when kids are waiting for it to get dark enough to play Ghost in the Graveyard.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and I’ll have trouble geting a job my first three years out of college. That would be cake. No, hold it—what am I saying? I’m going to need a job to keep fresh Adidas on my feet.

Remember the days when we were all little pups who didn’t have to get summer jobs? On the last day of grammar school, our teachers would line us up to walk us out in an orderly fashion and we would make a break for it as soon as we got clear of the door.

I knew a teacher who would carry a gun to keep us in line until we got to the gate. A kid tried to test her once. Man, that teacher sure could shoot for an old broad.

When we got to high school, our dads would tell us to get a job at Jewel or Brown’s Fried Chicken to help pay the mortgage. If you were smart like me, you became a caddy and worked 18-hole days in the fresh air and sunshine, then went to the beach. Workin‘ hard? Hardly workin’.

I remember sitting on a beach in Williams Bay, Wisconsin one August day about two years ago. My dad and I were admiring the beauty of the setting sun and the spectacle of sinking sailboats when he looked at me and said, “Do you really appreciate what a beautiful day this is?”

Of course not. Sing it, Dylan Thomas:

IT+>See the Boys of Summer in their ruin. Lay the gold things barren, Setting no store by harvest, Freeze the soils.

So why do I write of summer when April is still raining away? Because this is it, kids. My job here is finished, and I wanted to be sure we all wake up each and every day this summer, take in a deep breath and say, YES.

Life is good, boys and girls. Summer makes life better, so snarf it down like a heaping pile of Oreo ice cream.

One last thing. Do me a favor and remind your friends and loved ones all summer long that at the end of the week, it’s time to say it’s Friday—and go grab a Frosty.