Rooted in Joy | 90s Summers Still Have My Heart

There are certain summer things I have decided I am simply not too old for. Popsicles. Staying up too late. Cheap sunglasses. Pretty skies. The emotional thrill of drinking something cold out of a plastic cup with condensation running down the side like it has also been through a lot.

I refuse to outgrow any of it.

Maybe especially now, in midlife, when life has become a complicated blend of calendar reminders, mystery joint pain, permission slips, breast cancer, group texts, and standing in the kitchen wondering why everyone in this house continues to need dinner. Every day. Rude, honestly.

Take Me Back to Early 90s Summers

Summer used to feel different, didn’t it?

I am talking early 90s summers. Prime time. Elite era. The kind of summer that smelled like Banana Boat tanning oil, fresh cut grass, chlorine, asphalt, and that weirdly specific scent of a cassette tape case melting in the backseat. The kind where you woke up with no real plan except to eat cereal in front of cartoons, roam around outside like a tiny unsupervised pioneer, and complain dramatically that there was ‘nothing to do’ while surrounded by an entire yard.

Those summers had texture.

Jelly shoes that gave you blisters but were somehow still worth it. Wet hair drying, crunchy from your best friend’s pool. Bonne Bell Lip Smackers in a flavor that was allegedly Dr Pepper but mostly tasted like hope. Lisa Frank folders, even though school was months away. Caboodles. Boomboxes. Cheap sunglasses from a gas station spinner rack that made you feel famous in a way no designer pair ever could.

We were not influencers. We were feral children with popsicle-stained mouths and questionable bangs.

And honestly? We were thriving.

Not the Bangs, Just the Wonder

There was a freedom to those summers that I miss in my bones. Not because everything was perfect. It wasn’t. The early 90s gave many of us enough awkwardness to last a lifetime. We survived perms, Sun-In experiments, bicycle shorts, and the deep humiliation of calling a friend’s house and having to speak to their dad first.

But still, there was a softness there. A slower rhythm. A world before every tiny moment had to be photographed, filtered, captioned, and turned into content. If the sky was pretty, you just looked at it. Maybe you yelled, “Come look at the sky!” and someone wandered out barefoot, holding a bowl of cereal at 8:45 p.m., because summer had no rules.

That is the part I want back.

Not the bangs. Heaven help us, not the bangs. But the wonder. The low-stakes joy. The ability to be delighted by something as simple as a popsicle, a paperback, or a sky that looks like it was colored with the good crayons.

My Midlife Summer Manifesto

This is why, in this Rooted in Joy season, I am making a small but firm declaration: I will not become too grown-up for summer’s little pleasures.

I will eat the popsicle. The red one, probably, because I have not matured enough to choose grape (gag me with a spoon). I will let it drip down my hand like I am 11 years old and absolutely unsupervised. I will not pretend I prefer artisanal fruit sorbet in a tiny compostable cup, though I respect her journey.

I will go to the library and come home with more books than I can reasonably read. This is not a character flaw. This is optimism with a barcode. I will stay up too late sometimes, not because I am being productive, but because summer nights have a way of making you believe the next chapter, the next episode, the next porch sit, the next scroll through old songs is somehow necessary for your soul.

I will buy the cheap sunglasses. The ones that live in my purse with receipts, gum wrappers, and one mysterious loose pill (probably ibuprofen). I will wear them like I am being followed by paparazzi, even if I am only walking into the grocery store for coffee creamer and paper towels.

And I will stop for pretty skies. I will be dramatic about sunsets. I will say, “Look at that pink!” as though I personally invented clouds. I will take the photo, even though my phone is already ninety percent sky pictures and screenshots of recipes I will never make.

Joy Does Not Have to Be Fancy

Midlife can trick us into thinking delight needs to be more sophisticated. Like joy should arrive with a linen napkin, good lighting, and a reservation. But some of the best joy still comes wrapped in plastic, melting slightly, sold in a box of twelve.

Some of it sounds like cicadas. Some of it looks like bare feet on the porch. Some of it feels like opening a library book and finding an old due-date stamp, a little ghost of someone else’s summer.

And some of it is remembering that we are allowed to be grown women and still be silly. Still be soft. Still be easily impressed by fireflies, cold drinks, pool hair, and a sky doing the absolute most.

Still That 90s Summers Girl

We do not have to outgrow the things that once made us feel free. We can carry them with us, right alongside the wisdom, the wrinkles, the grocery lists, and the emotional support cardigan we keep nearby because every building in America is apparently air-conditioned for penguins.

Rooted in joy does not mean pretending life is simple. It means noticing when simple things still offer us a place to rest.

A popsicle. A book. A porch chair. A late summer sky. A pair of sunglasses that cost $6.99 and make you feel like you might have secrets.

So no, I will not be outgrowing summer. Not the cutesy parts. Not the nostalgic parts. Not the slightly ridiculous parts.

I am still that early 90s girl somewhere inside, sticky-fingered and sun-warmed, reading Sassy magazine, believing the whole evening is still ahead of her.

And honestly?

She was onto something.