It's July 25th. Which means it's almost August. I was startled when I noticed the date this morning, and was struck once again by the realization that the warmer, sunnier months really do just fly past while you're looking the other way.

I always have a double handful of grandiose plans for summer (visit Prague), and three times as many simple plans (visit the beach once a week). Usually by the time I've realized that I haven't done any of the things I wanted to do, it's midway through September and it's nowhere near as warm and beautiful as it was a month or two ago. So I shrug, and I say to myself "I'll do it next year."

Well, suddenly next year has rolled around. Want to know how many times I've been to the beach this summer?

Zero.

As I get older it's becoming more and more important for me to make sure I do more than go to work, put my nose to the grindstone for eight hours or more, then come home, play some video games or watch a movie, and go to bed. I want to be doing so much more than that, but generally by the time 6:30 rolls around, I've finished work, I've gone to the gym or my yoga class, and I've finally gotten home. I think about taking off to the beach or riding my bike down to the store for strawberries, and I just can't make myself get off the couch. I'm tired.

I'm also tired of sitting around the house doing nothing.

Before it's over, this summer:

I'm going to Bumbershoot for sure, and maybe Warped Tour. Both are summer music/arts festivals that I have a blast at. It's been years since I've been to either one.

I'm going camping for at least one night.

I'm going to the beach, damnit!

I'm visiting Fort Flagler.

I'm going to Seattle to wander around and hang out.

I'm going to ride my bike more.

I'm going hiking at least once.

And so end my summer ambitions for this year.

Maybe next year I can go to Prague...