Midsummer night's thoughts

Ah, midsummer: when the cottonwood trees woo each other.  How appropriate that they lose their own white dresses in the middle of wedding season.

Last week, I was talking to a parent during the meal service program I run at the library.  His daughter was making a paper bag puppet and eating a cheese stick, so she was otherwise occupied.  Our conversation went in a predictable direction.

"So what are you studying?"
"Journalism."
Pause.
"What do you want to do with it?"
Cue overly-processed answer.
"Well, I like writing, so--"
Knowing nod.
"I thought so.  So you want to do creative writing?  Like short stories?"
"Well, no."

Our conversation went nowhere fast after that.  He works part time as a high-rise window washer.  The money's really good, he said.  You get paid full time for a few hours of work and you get benefits.  Then his daughter was done with lunch and it was time to go.  She drew a pink and green striped dress onto her puppet.

His knee-jerk assumption about writing threw me off a little bit.  I've been thinking about it a lot since then in the empty summer days.

Like, why did he immediately assume I was interested in writing fiction?  Is it because I was shamelessly reading a young adult book with a title like Sweetheart or Lush when they came in?  Is it because I work in a library?  Because I look like an indie young woman who just gives off the vibe starving artist and can't commit to anything serious?

My self-confidence is trying to convince me it's the latter, even though I've always had higher aspirations than starving artist.  But where are you really getting with those aspirations, my self-confidence asks as a follow-up.  It's always a ruthless interview.

Summer is rough.  I always think I like it, running full speed at it to be done with finals and classes I've been in for too long.  But truthfully I don't handle it all that gracefully.  At least school keeps me busy enough to dissuade these funks, between classes, friends and work.  But during the summer it's just me and my constantly running brain over-analyzing every hope, dream and aspiration I've considered lately with nothing to distract me.

The last time I really remember having one of those put-your-arms-out-the-car-window-because-you-feel-as-carefree-as-your-loose-fitting-clothing was a few years ago when the cottonwood trees were writing love letters to each other and McDonald's still had 50 cent ice cream cones.

Since then summer has felt a lot like stopping abruptly in the middle of a race.  I spent the whole rest of the time thinking really hard about everything that happened during those first few miles.  It's almost more exhausting than just going on.