In the summertime the ice cream trucks drive around Brooklyn. I know when they’re nearby because they play the same song as always.

No matter what state you’re in or what year, the ice cream song sounds like America and it feels like burning hot pavement. 

I hear it faintly from my apartment. I look out my window to watch the kids rush over and imagine they’d be in their swimsuits and there’d be an unscrewed fire hydrant somewhere. It drives by without stopping and I feel bad for it. 

Like when you feel bad for those stuffed animals at the store waiting to be chosen and loved and remembered forever. Like my bear: 

I guess that’s what normal girl summer feels like. So here’s my guide to normal girl summer:

call your grandma back and apologize that you missed her initial call, talk for a while about not much and hang up feeling content

cerave sunscreen 

a cotton bralette 

vacuum in the morning because you felt a crumb on the kitchen floor while making coffee 

pilates class and realize you’re the only one there who isn’t a stay at home mom 

pay more attention to your cat than ever before 

a blowout even if you don’t really have any plans 

listen to hole while you look at yourself in the bathroom mirror 

mockumentaries like drop dead gorgeous or waiting for guffman, realize that tons of girls are normal and american 

the feminine touch of a single toilet paper square used to blot lipstick and intentionally left floating in the toilet to flirt with the next passerby 

a scrape on your knee or ankle

the sound of your AC unit running is comforting in a way

notice a lizard in the grass for the first time in years