The Reluctantly Anti-Brat Summer
Chronic pain kept me from having a brat summer. To cope, I looked for songs that reminded me of the strange duality of feeling physically burnt-out but emotionally energized.
Listen, I was looking forward to turning 40. I really was. But I’ve been at this for half a year now, and it’s complete nonsense. None of you warned me that the warranty on my body was going to run out the second I hit middle age1.
Setting aside the unending existential dread that’s always faintly buzzing behind my eyes just a little bit, 40 isn’t a number that scared me. Something about watching a new generation of college students lose their minds over anti-aging creams and injectables completely disabused me of the notion that this milestone carried with it some magic expiration date.
My mistake was focusing on the self portrait stashed in my attic growing more haggard by the day, and not this actual sack of meat I’ve been neglecting for decades.
The collapse started right on cue. A few leg pains the week before my birthday sent me straight to an overly-eager, shiny new GP who suggested physical therapy, and why not a mammogram as a special treat? Armed with referrals and wondering when they started letting seventeen-year-olds practice medicine unsupervised, I spent the next few months in PT making my pain significantly worse.
My physical therapist said “you should really be better by now,” and sent me to a specialist. The specialist wouldn’t see me without another referral from the GP. The GP gave me an x-ray. I got another mammogram (the first one came back abnormal, but don’t worry; I’m okay). When I finally saw the specialist, they told me I had a herniated disc, though I’d have to get an MRI before they could help. The MRI confirmed the herniated disc. This bought me an appointment for a steroid injection, but not until two months later. In the midst of this, just for fun, my vision started to go blurry (“bad quality tears,” my eye doctor declared). The injection is scheduled for later this week. All of this took six months in toto.
What happened in the last six months, my friends?
Certainly not the dramatic reinvention of an already-iconic hyperpop diva, one who managed to make both a word and a color reach virality beyond even millennial pink, who catapulted an awkward indie kid to stardom, or who gave Gen Z a complete identity crisis.
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Certainly not. Because how was I supposed to have a brat summer with a herniated disc?
What’s worse, I had my chance just before it started. Charli xcx played at Primavera Sound in Barcelona at the end of May, just before Brat dropped, and I was right there. Thunderstorms, my goddamned leg pain after twelve hours on my feet, and a 4am time slot the night before hotel checkout all conspired against me. Bed seemed like the sensible, mature, comfortable decision.
Regrets? I have a few.
Josh Lora (of
) posted a few days ago about how content we’ve all become, at least outwardly, to sit at home scrolling our phones, inverting the expectation that going out is necessary for healthy social standing or even good mental health. Brat summer’s emergence flew in the face of this new normal. What should have given the increasingly antisocial millenial-and-under populace an excuse to get out of their homes and into the club made (many of) them double down instead. Why bother living your own life when others’ are available for free from the comfort of your bed?
I am no stranger at all to rotting in bed. In fact, I’m a pro at it. It kind of comes as part of the standard package of neuro-atypicality. But “early” music festival bedtime notwithstanding, I’m actually at a period in my life, post-pandemic malaise, where I’m ready to push myself out of the house as much as possible.
More travel, more shows, more awkward events to meet new people. I’m up for it. My body, though? Not so much.
I’m not proud to admit that the dreaded fear of missing out still occasionally creeps up on me, even at my age. Now, of course, brat summer is kind of over anyway2, and since the literal pain in my ass has kept me from enjoying any club classics, my FOMO has turned to plain MO.
This late in the game, admitting defeat is only natural. What I’ve found myself doing instead, though, is a sort of rebranding. If I could have curated my own summer vibe, leaning into the situation in which I find myself, what music would be on that playlist? What are the songs that would play when I enter the room, creaking and complaining?
I might not be able to dance right now (or bend over, or stay in one position for longer than fifteen minutes at a time), but nobody said I can’t retcon a summer soundtrack of my very own.
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