Well, for starters, summer camp was not in my family’s budget. I hung out with the same set of high-school friends in the summers as I did in the winters. And my summer job—stocking shelves at a drug store—didn’t provide much in the way of cute co-workers. It was the kind of job where you put in your hours and high-tailed it back to your own neighborhood and pals.
The summer between my senior year of high school and freshman year of college is memorable for my first real break-up, actually. I’d started dating a guy around prom time, and we made it through graduation and the senior class trip, until… We were headed to different colleges, and I just didn’t see how a long-distance relationship would work. He was a super-sweet guy, and I regret having hurt his feelings, but I had new beginnings on my mind.
In college, I met a guy my freshman year (his senior year), and we dated him for four and a half years, though much of it was apart because he was two hours away back in his hometown. Immediately following my college graduation, I spent a year in France, immersing myself in the language and culture. I returned in June and soon broke up with him. There was the age thing. At that point, we'd spent more time apart than together. And, again, nice guy, but I still had a serious case of wanderlust.
And, yep, so far this is more about summer break-ups than summer love.
Next stop, California, where it felt like perpetual summer to this Midwestern native. Three of my four Michigan State roommates had also moved to L.A. The four of us were single, starting careers, and loving beach life (guys included). I had about three years of casual dating until—on one of those nights out with my girlfriends—I met my husband. We met on October first at a bar in Manhattan Beach. Again, not quite fitting in with this month’s theme of summer love, but, hey, at least it’s not another summer break-up story. And we’ll be happily married twenty-one years this month.