One reason why I am terribly afraid to stand still

Essentially, I am still a grade-schooler, except minus the perks of having the option of leaving the house with snot-ridden nostrils, wearing sweat pants. Like any good third-grader though, summer remains how I measure my life.

First off, given that I am a summer baby, it’s truly how I measure my life -- or my years, anyway -- but it’s more than just that. Despite being a full-fledged adult and having traded a 401K for three consecutive months off, summer remains the yardstick. Summer seems to be when things happen. Summer promises something new, different and sexy, even if that appeal loses its luster by July.

For instance:

When you’re a kid, summer is when you flee the stifling walls and tiny urinals of school to ride barefoot on spiky bike pedals, fall hard to green grass and asphalt, returning home with bloody legs, just in time for dinner and the ice cream truck. It’s when you truly test your boundaries and in some instances, learn why they’re set.

But as mentioned, I still think of my summers like that. It’s the time of road trips, baseball, drinking outside during sunset, lying with girls in the grass. I guarantee you, if you shouted out a random age from the back row of a crowded theater showing David’s Summers: A Musical!, I could easily look through the glaring house lights, make direct eye contact with you -- provided that I was wearing my corrective lenses -- and tell you quickly, without notes, several unique happenings from that summer, or why that one was one of the top five ever.

The first time I kissed a girl, summer. The first time other things happened in that department, summer. First time I fell in love, summer. Only time I’ve hiked over 12,000 feet. First time I moved more than a thousand miles from home. When I discovered that I am a tiny bit granola (but not so much so that I would sell tie-dye shirts, jesus). It goes on like this, but I’ll spare you.

I can think of summers by location, too. For Florida, I see my apartment building with my door ajar, same with the neighbors across the way, sitting on the stairs. Sophomore year of college? My ex-girlfriend’s apartment, and particularly her roof deck. Summer I lived in New Hampshire? Sitting atop the picnic tables at dusk, looking out at the northern Presidential Range of the White Mountains.

It goes on like this. Until now, that is.

The idea of settling anywhere long-term makes me anxious. It’s just not something I have done and yet, I’ve been here in Salt Lake for a long time and I worry, that while last summer was great -- maybe top five -- I’m going to repeat it. Then what? That’s one less summer to collect.