As a long-time resident of Kelowna, I feel qualified to say that summers here are, simply put, the best.
And everyone knows it – that’s why the Moo-Lix line is always out the door and I’m forced to share my favourite secluded beach access with tourists who don’t seem to be aware that I’ve carved my name into a tree there so it’s basically mine and mine alone.
But this year, summer has been less than enjoyable for me so far, and it’s not just because I’m bitter that the unpredictable weather and audacious tourists have been ruining my beach plans. It’s because I’ve been feeling terrible about myself ever since I finished the last exam of my second year at university.
Before summer, I had an excuse that could get me out of anything and justify almost any behaviour: University. People judge you much less harshly for the disturbing state of your bedroom or lengthy periods of time between your showers if you tell them how many assignments you’ve had due in the same week.
During the school year, I convince myself that I really am a productive and motivated person. I tell myself if it weren’t for the busyness of school, I would totally sort through that pile of receipts lying on my bedroom floor – the ones underneath those clothes that haven’t been through the washing machine for a length of time I’m embarrassed to specify, because what university student has time for laundry?
But when summer finally arrives, I no longer have this excuse. And I am faced with the uncomfortable realization that I am simply a huge procrastinator.
Of course, summer is a time to relax. But there’s relaxing, and then there’s what I do, which could be more accurately compared to entering into a state that is normally exclusive to sea anemones and other creatures of similarly limited sentience.
Sea anemones basically stay in the same place for as long as possible, until it becomes an uninhabitable environment. In my case, I move from the couch during Netflix marathons (they sound impressive if you call them marathons, right?) only when the hunger pangs become unbearable. Then I usually fill my empty stomach with a couple or twelve cookies, because all other food options require far more effort to prepare than I am willing to exert.
Food can be an issue in other ways, too. The other day I was clearing out my school backpack, probably because my bedroom floor seemed like it needed to be buried underneath more things that I would tidy away later, when I came across a plastic lunch bag containing the fuzzy remains of a pepperoni stick I had taken to school approximately one month earlier (back when I was consuming other food items besides cookies).
Faced with the reality of my utter laziness, I have two options: Be more productive, or find a new excuse. I think I like the second option, and I’m not sure how yet, but I’m going to figure out a way to blame it on the tourists.
