Before she left London for the year, my friend told me about a phone call she had had with a friend back in Los Angeles. The two of them, bored by the predictable monotony that making responsible decisions tends to have, decided to dedicate their summer to ‘being messy’ and ‘doing things for the plot’.
I was, as any good friend would be, supportive of the idea, but after a very melodramatic first year of university — the details of which would rival a daytime soap opera — adopting the mantra for myself was the furthest thing from my mind.
I was looking forward to the long, slow summer I had planned; returning to the same restaurant job I’d had since I was 16; playing dominoes with Frank — a gruff (but loveable) sixty year-old construction worker; and drinking wine on the back porch with my mom and her friends.
In hindsight, I underestimated how accustomed I had become to the intricate melodramas of my cosmopolitan lifestyle. It was naive to believe that after a year of living in central London, I could withstand three months in a village of four hundred people without stirring the pot, at least a little.
A little ended up being a lot. Some, but not all of my activities, included: a summer fling with a close family-friend twice my age; crashing my car after a hit-and-run with a DPD driver who fled the scene; reconnecting with an old flame I swore I’d never speak to again; and getting into a verbal altercation with a local gentleman over my (alleged) promise to play Monopoly with him.
My summer was very messy. Nothing that happened was planned, and a lot of it wasn’t ideal, but I had a lot of fun and I learned a lot about who I am in the process. I am not a person who has regrets, but even if I was, this summer would not be one of them.
Messy summer, you will be missed — and you are definitely over — but your carefree spirit will live on in me for many seasons to come.