Life Lesson #21:Oh you look so beautiful tonight. Even if it is like, a bazillion degrees out.

Most of us can agree on a few telltale signs that trumpet the arrival of summer.

Clothing goes on that reveals skin we haven’t shown in months: tank tops, shorts, flip flops, bathing suits. Drastic increases in our utility bills as we crank up the air conditioning the moment we step into our homes (and tend to forget to turn off when we leave). Dining and/or drinking outside as establishments keep their outdoor seating on the sidewalks for the next few months. The steady consumption of foods cooked on a grill, corn on the cob, and frozen cocktails. And tans (or I guess burns for some of you, but I’m not too familiar with that) that diminish by Thursday under harsh neon cubicle lights, but are sure to be darkened for the Monday morning return to work.

Then there are the summer staples that are more unique to my friends and I. And for us, we couldn’t be more psyched when we realize they are finally here.

The first symptom we’ve come to embrace is what I like to call Ventriculus Crampus. This phenomenon of insanely sore stomach muscles is particularly acute from June to August. Now, this is not from any sort of physical activity, regardless of how it should be since it’s bathing suit season and all. I mean the type of pain from laughing so hard, for such extended periods, that you wake up the next morning feeling like someone took a 2 by4 to your intestinal lining. Boy do I love waking up with that sensation.

I think it is partially due to different groups of friends getting together and hanging out and mingling and testing the comic boundaries of the newly formed group with ridiculous comments and wild stories. I also imagine it has something to do with everyone being way too hung over and sleep deprived (from trying to cram a typical spring break binge of eating and drinking and partying into three days) that they reach that crazy, cracked-out stage when everything seems hilarious. I also have my own half-baked theory in which it’s so hot out, people start acting a little delirious and shed their usual stiff selves to reveal their inner comedian. Regardless of why, even if you can’t remember, you know you had a good night if you wake up with Ventriculus Crampus.

Next, there is the sudden need to hear every song from the Top 40 List. We expect to listen to them twice a day during the week (often during a commute to or from work, as well as a typical weekday happy hour). This is really just to keep us pumped until the weekend comes. Once Friday rolls around, we want to hear these tunes at least four times a day (first poolside, then while getting all cleaned up to go out, next during the pre-game/waiting for taxis period, and finally, when we actually make it out).

Generally speaking, I hate the radio. Morning talk makes me want to hurl large objects at small children, mostly because I’m incapable of comprehending any sort of chirpiness first thing in the morning. Well, until like ten probably. I’m just not a morning person. And then there are those idiots who call the deejays when they should be doing something productive with their lives just to announce how much they loovvvveee their station and oh my god! I can’t believe I won! (Um, why does this surprise you in any way? You called the station.). Therefore, in order to protect the lives of any small children, I usually don’t bother with FM. It just annoys the crap out of me.

But come sunny skies and beach weather, I’m a radio junkie. I need my Top 40 fix, every day. I need to hear Kelly, Shakira and Chamillionaire. I even need to sing along, though I’m pretty confident I’m tone deaf and my voice is awful. It’s hot outside, and all I want to do is roll down my car windows, turn up the volume and scream promiscuous girl, you're teasing me, you know what I want, and I got what you need at the top of my lungs.

Another staple is your face, all over the place. This is because the heat brings out the cameras. There are pictures being taken at noon on the beach, candid shots of someone desperately trying to take an afternoon nap, and those sweaty, middle-of-the-night flashes that capture us singing along to those absurd Top 40 hits we just love oh-so-much. While no one wants pictures of their pasty selves mid-February when they’re wearing seven layers of protective clothing and tend to look as if they haven’t seen daylight for ten years, even the most camera shy are all over the summer snapshots.

For a more select group of us, we take the picture thing one step further. The official confirmation that the season has arrived is when your mug makes it into the Long Island Summer magazine. We scour the giant 11 by 14, black and white pages for a familiar face, whether it is yours or that of a friend. Amongst the abyss of half-closed eyes and sloppy grins, nothing is quite as satisfying as finding your self, beaming back at you. Who cares if you’ve got a shot of Jagger halfway down your shirt and your hair is blowing in seven directions?! You’re in the magazine, baby!

And lastly, and what I’d like to think of as the greatest ritual that without, all other summer signs would be obsolete, is The Arm Pump. It brings every one of the other elements together. You’re out with your friends, the early hours of the morning have arrived, and it’s time to get your groove on. Suddenly, "I Write Sins Not Tragedies" starts blaring and you’re all going nuts, cameras flashing, shoulders shaking, bodies bouncing all over the place. Someone slips and falls, sending everyone else into a tailspin of laughter that is only stopped by the chorus coming on again.

And then it happens.

You look around and watch a sea of arms, high up in the sky, pumping away to the beat. It’s the great common denominator. It doesn’t make a difference if you can’t dance for shit. Anyone can pump his or her first high into the air.

Once it begins, The Arm Pump stays until the very last song of the night. It reaches truly epic proportions as the evening progresses. Billboard songs are only the beginning. They’re like the warm ups to get your shoulder ready for the challenges to come. The real magic lies in "City of Blinding Lights". And without a doubt, The Arm Pump was made for "Rescue Me".

You can just hear it in your head right now.

Running all my life
Running all my day
Running through the night
Seems like forever
Take me now
I'm so tired
Take me now
This time, forever

Good lord, how I heart The Arm Pump.

Life lesson #21: Who cares if this season, you’re sweating like a migrant worker running for the border? I say enjoy the summer. It only comes around once a year. And who knows if this will be your last at the shore, on the island, or by the lake.

Screw being self-conscious in minimal clothing or worrying if you’re going to be able to recover by Monday morning to become a productive citizen again. Because when it’s hot outside and you're with your friends, that is the only thing that matters. Oh, and that you’ve got a strong, free hand to snap some photos and thurst high into the night.

I’ll see you all at The Drift.

A note from Penny (and a brief apology): Forgot to tell you all I wouldn't be posting last week. In case you hadn't noticed by now. So sorry.

But I'm back. And after this week, postings will be going up on Tuesdays.

And as always, thanks so much for reading!