Outdoors/Adventure

Seized by a fear of missing out, could this be our last sunny day?

This summer may kill us with kindness.

The anxiety started in May. The sun stayed out later and later. So did I. As I filled up my calendar with indoor work meetings and tasks, I wished I could create a daily block of 9 a.m.-5 p.m. dreariness followed by sudden and endless sunshine. I know that sun and warm weather is a precious resource in Alaska, and it's wrong to squander it on a work day.

When sunshine hits and I am available, I take it. I don't ask questions. I don't think about whether I'm tired, sore, or fed. I just go and do stuff outside as long as the sunshine lasts.

I do this because I have a bad case of FOMO, or Fear of Missing Out. Usually, this is reserved for fear of missing out on what other people are doing, but during Alaska's short summer, weather can prompt it. What if this is the last sunny day on Earth, and I am under fluorescent lights trapped on this conference call?

Cumulative effects

It's July, and it feels like every other day has been the best day we'll see all summer. Suddenly, 70 degrees and sunny starts to feel normal. Still, I am world weary enough to know this is not normal, and can all come crashing down at any moment. I have spent enough Alaska summers listening to Tom Waits' (Everywhere I Go) "It Rains On Me" and feeling sorry for myself that even hearing the lyrics prompts me to take vitamin D.

In the morning before work, I run or bike. This at least gets me a quick, intense dose of fresh air before walking up the steps to the climate-controlled environment of my office for the better part of the day. I crack open my laptop, poise my fingers above the keys and start creating the insect-like and incessant pitter-patter of productivity. E-mails fly. G-chats ping-pong. Numbers are punched in, PDFs are PDFed.

As the sun stays out, I feel that familiar pit in my stomach by mid-morning. I'm inside and I'm missing it: the final beautiful day of summer. I crane to look out the window to see if there are any clouds I need to ward off with my special wishing powers. What I see are tourists. They have taken over the sidewalks, basking in the sunlight with their visors, fanny packs and binoculars. I feel a twinge of envy and indignation toward these tourists who have probably waited to visit Alaska over the better part of careers spent indoors, like mine, except they didn't have almost immediate access to, well, Alaska. Still, a part of me wonders, did they deserve it? Was their winter as hard as ours was?

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I am distracted from this train of thought when a friend texts and asks me if I'd like to go for a hike in the evening. I say yes, and then think about my answer.

The crash

I am tired.

My life is in disarray. I haven't cleaned the kitchen in a month and I think what is smelling funny is the dishwasher, but it could also be the recycling. I don't bother to hang up my laundry anymore because I am constantly living in various states of being packed. The pile grows, and then it relaxes a little on the floor as I pluck garments from it; then I feed it with new, clean laundry until I stuff those clean clothes into backpacks and suitcases.

The bridge of my nose and the tops of my cheeks are brown and freckled, but when I remove my sunglasses I blind people.

I have a difficult time getting up in the morning, probably because I was up until 1 a.m. the night before and the night before that, and so on since May.

My car is a graveyard of cloudy Nalgenes with one sip of water left, and granola bar wrappers.

Still, I go for the hike. I bring a nutritious dinner of bread and some creamy things to dip it in along with chocolate, all wrapped neatly in plastic grocery bags. It is glorious out, and that's good -- because this, as I remind myself, is the last time it will ever be so amazing, and it's important I'm there to enjoy it.

On the cloudy days, when I sit in a bathtub and feel profoundly, bone-achingly, falling-asleep-when-my-head-hits-the-pillow tired, I'll know I did everything I could to enjoy this summer. I'll feel satisfied, and triumphant. I'll take a longer nap than usual, perhaps from 10 p.m.-6 a.m. I will be rested, at least temporarily, until the sun comes out again and Alaska lures me outdoors with the promise of never promising anything, especially where weather is concerned.

Alli Harvey lives, works and plays in Anchorage.

Alli Harvey

Alli Harvey lives in Palmer and plays in Southcentral Alaska.

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