Nothing is permanent in the summer; the plates are made of paper and the best restaurants are housed in plywood shacks.

Nobody wants to over-exert themselves. We insist our summer movies have loud explosions and easy plots.

Even stuffy towns let loose with concerts on the green or movies in the park.

Bedtimes become negotiable as even the strictest parents find it hard to send their kids to bed when they can still see the sun.

Those of us fortunate enough to take vacations see anxieties fade away like sand castles when the tide comes in. With no time clock to punch or boss to impress we’re free again and hurry towards the water to play.

Summer is transformative. It has a funny way of taking us in and spitting us back out slightly different than before.

Kids who live at the end of cul-de-sacs go off to camp returning as competent archers capable of navigating canoes through placid waters. My fifth-grade teacher left as Ms. Gladue but came back as Mrs. Evertson.

Summer is like the opposite of Lent. You spend forty days pursuing something new and then continue your normal life.

My childhood summer adventures were mostly make believe and set to the sounds of musical theater. No summer is complete for me without a little Rodgers and Hammerstein.

Each year between the ages of eleven and sixteen I dove into a new role, usually the one with the least amount of singing.

One summer I was a rabbi; another year I was a cowboy who was obsessed with sweet potato pie, and another year I was a star-polishing angel.

I’ve also been a Prince from Siam, a salesman traveling through the troubled streets of River City, Iowa, a sailor stationed in the South Pacific, and for my encore, the President of the United States who couldn’t feel his legs but was completely charmed by a little orphan girl.

From sixteen on I chased paychecks. My first year I bagged groceries (back when stores provided such a service), then I worked at a gas station, followed by a bakery, and then spent two summers as a pizza delivery guy.

The summer before my senior year of college was the best. We lived in a dilapidated house with trees growing through the foundation, watched every Wrestlemania in order, and hit every happy hour in town knowing we’d never be that young again.

I worked that year as a “bluecoat” in a science museum.

I was supposed to wander the displays showing kids the wonders of science and discovery but mostly ended up separating the older kids from either fighting with each other or making out.

They were very interested in biology.

It’s too soon to know how I’ll change this summer.

If Hollywood is any guide, I might fall in love, grow a set of boobs, or win the caddy scholarship.

Perhaps I’ll befriend a dolphin or battle a dog who stole my father’s baseball.

My past three summer transformations have been intense.

First I became a homeowner, then a gardener, and last year, an expectant father. This year I hope to become an expert coordinator of onesies and hairbows. I never could’ve seen it coming.

The first day of summer was this week and it’s the longest of the year. From here on out the days are getting shorter. But that won’t stop me from celebrating at least a few of those long summer days with a sunset-sparked campfire burning late into the night.

When summer has ended and my tan fades away I’ll mostly be the same as I am right now. But different. Somehow, in some way that I can’t wait to see.

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