Your boss is a little confused about the company’s “summer hours” policy.

Does it mean you leave early on Friday or come late on Monday or skip Wednesdays or work only on even numbered days? Long story short, you haven’t been to the office since mid-May.


Could it be that you haven’t posted any “feet in the sand” selfies on Facebook? Or any vacation selfies at all? It’s almost like you’re capable of having fun without constantly reminding strangers on the Internet that you’re having fun.

You don’t remember anything about Burning Man. Because you never went to Burning Man. Instead, you went camping. Like a grown-up.

You keep running into Bill Murray.

Your flight to Orlando was oversold, and they didn’t have enough seats for everybody. Because you’re naturally selfless, you made the ultimate sacrifice. “Get on the plane without me,” you told your family. “Go to Disney World and have fun. I’ll be okay.” Then you spent the next five says not standing in line in unbearable humidity to shake hands with a teenager dressed like an anthropomorphic rat. We don’t want to throw around words like hero, but you’re a hero.

You’ve done at least one thing this summer that made a policeman say, “I’d arrest you, but I’m not sure if that’s actually a crime. I wouldn’t even know how to describe it on an incident report. Never mind, just get the hell out of here.”

You can’t recall the last time you had a strong opinion about the election. Remember back when it was cold, and it felt like if that one candidate you hate so much became president, it’d be the end of the world? But now, you can’t even remember his or her name anymore. What were you so angry about anyway? Oh whatever, let’s have another sangria.

You say to your wife, “Well this is weird. I had no idea there were so many topless women on the beaches in Rio.” And she totally buys it!

The difference between your past four weekends and the lyrics to a Jimmy Buffett song is statistically insignificant.

It’s not that you caught that foul ball at the Major League game with your bare hands. It’s not that you caught it before it hit that 5 year old boy in the face, stopping the ball just before it shattered his jaw. It’s not even that the woman next to you was so impressed with your act of heroism and athletic ability that she planted a big sloppy kiss on you, which ended up playing on the Jumbotron while the audience cheered for you and the stadium organist played “We Are the Champions.” What really matters is your ex saw it all on TV, alone, in her sweatpants.

You learned how to speak French. Well, not fluently. Just enough to say things like, “Donne-moi une fessée s’il te plait. Je suis un garçon vilain.” (“Spank me, I have been naughty.”)

According to your doctor, that honeycomb pattern on your butt isn’t serious. You’ve just got a bad case of “Hammock Ass.” Don’t worry, it’s highly treatable—see if your insurance covers transport to a deck chair by MedEvac.

We don’t want to get into the messy details, but there’s a restraining order mandating that you’re not allowed within a hundred yards of your neighbor’s Slip N’ Slide.

The bad news is, you probably should have said no when your buddy suggested taking a trip down to Tijuana for a “donkey show,” because there are some things you can’t unsee. The good news is, you’re now the guy with the “Let me tell you about the time I saw a donkey show in Tijuana” story, which makes you the center of attention at every party for the rest of your life.

You‘re actually looking forward to tax season next year, if only for the look on your accountant’s face when he tries to make sense of your summer receipts.

You can’t remember the last time you urinated in an actual bathroom.

You ended up canceling your big summer trip to stay home and watch National Lampoon‘s Vacation in your underwear. It just might be the greatest decision you‘ve ever made.

(This story appeared, in a slightly different form, in the July/August issue of Men’s Health.)