How was lawn parties?

…That’s all you have to say?

Well, there was live music (whether the artists were familiar or not). There was plenty of food (never mind the fact that most of it was simmering and potentially fly-ridden). Everyone looked adorably preppy in their “Ivy League” outfits; after all, you can never go wrong with pastel trousers. (…I guess.)

And let’s not overlook the lawns themselves—between the blasting speakers and the half-hearted crowds; the damp, warm grass and the incessant little insects that needed to be swatted away at steady two-minute intervals; the sun beating relentlessly down on the tops of tired, determined heads and the intermittent drops of rain teasing them with the rumor of a nice, cool downpour…

Lawnparties were very sweaty indeed.

Nonetheless, the main event attracted quite an audience. Everyone amassed in front of a platform erected specifically for the occasion. While waiting for the music to start, some people tied up their hair to cool the backs of their necks. Others fanned themselves with programs, napkins, hands, or cell phones. Animated, indistinguishable shouts sprang from one companion to another, and forgettable words were forced into ears just a few inches away.

When the music finally tossed itself into the air, some of the attention shifted from cooling down to looking up. The performer threw an opening statement at the crowd, and the gaps between his words were filled half-way with applause as unfinished conversations struggled to wrap up.

Things got heated. Specifically people, more specifically their souls. The bass was pounding, pounding, pounding, replacing the need for a heartbeat. They swayed, bumping into each other for one or two resounding moments, and then they jumped—all at different times, to different heights, with different motivations, but somehow it was all in unison.

The performer above them shouted, swore, gestured like a violent conductor. Yet he wasn’t angry, and neither were they. Perhaps it would have been different in the dark. But it was bright; the sun made everything undeniably clear, and every shining face was intensely illuminated for exactly what it was and nothing more.

So the music lashed out and the people lashed back, and the present overruled the future and the past.

They were sweaty, every single one of them, and still they smiled—engrossed in the heavy, panting atmosphere of youth, of a soaring energy that embraced anything and everything, as long as it was just a bit farther than their pumping fists could reach.

Yeah, lawnparties were sweaty.

Maybe that was the whole point.