I’m an ocean person. I’m an ocean person in the die-hard, beach chairs in my car long past the point of sensibility, swimming in September seems like a great idea, sigh of relief when my toes hit a beach kind of way. If I somehow found a career that let me spend the rest of my life being around the water, it would be a perfect match. I’d sign on the dotted line for that, no questions asked. I revel in waves and salt and dunes. My favorite smell is found when you bury your face in a towel after a long day: a combination of ocean, sunscreen, and the way it smells when fabric has been dried by the sun. So far, I have yet to reveal the weird part of this scenario.

Here it is: I date a mountain person. As in, my boyfriend is someone who describes his dream vacation home as being a beautiful cabin up north. He likes fresh powder and sunsets seen through pine-dotted peaks. Being a few yards away from a moose in Jackson Hole this December made his day. Seeing his breath swirl into the air in a spiral of chilly fog probably brings a smile to his face, and he doesn’t wear a jacket outside as often as he should.

If a person’s favorite habitat were a measure of their compatibility with another, it would seem like we might be utterly doomed. In my idealistic mind, I always pictured myself with a fellow ocean lover, someone whose stomach flipped over a beautiful sunset/waves picture the way mine does. However, I’ve come to accept that maybe it’s better this way, with us each having a unique preference. He teaches me to love more than I did previously. He challenges me to appreciate different kinds of beauty. Together, we both love the ocean and the mountains and each other. And that’s just perfect.

My lovely cousin has a tablet for her Mac (because she’s incredibly talented and will some day be a famous graphic designer) that she was kind enough to let me play with one Friday evening last summer, which resulted in this little design. I was obviously waiting for the appropriate time to post it. Happy Love Day.

I certainly have no objection to movies and books set in the halls of high schools - my Netflix account shamlessly reveals my tastes for “High School TV Dramas” or “Teen TV” and admittedly I have a soft spot for books whose characters are navigating the hallowed halls of fictional prep schools, whose greatest drama involves prom or getting into college. However, I like happy high school stories. When I was recently convinced to watch “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” it was only after a certain amount of protesting that I agreed. I don’t like watching people be sad or lonely, certainly not voluntarily. The part where he eats lunch alone in the cafeteria? Heartbreaking.

Strange that it breaks my heart to see someone dining solo in a movie, but in real life I really enjoy the occasional lunch alone. Don’t get me wrong, I’m the first person to offer the cliché, “We should totally get lunch!” line to someone and I like the company — but I also really enjoy cozying up in a booth by myself for a few hours to read, write and carry out the phone calls I should have made days ago. Maybe it’s because it’s voluntary solitude? Perhaps it’s because in college company is easier to come by and time alone is what tends to take planning? Either way, as long as the food is worthwhile and the location is right, I enjoy my own company. (#thingsonlychildrensay)

There comes a time when it becomes blatantly obvious that there’s no such thing as “having a type” - not really at least. No one simply likes any old blonde or brunette, and just because you like someone’s height or eye color doesn’t mean you’ll like the rest of them. I’d propose that it’s instead more about the total package - the essence of the person, their character coupled with their looks and feel. I don’t have a type, but I definitely have a genre.

Genres are three-dimensional; they have depth and emotions like silly, responsible, and confident. I like someone who evokes salt air and crashing waves, someone who encompasses the smell of fresh laundry, dune grass, and Ralph Lauren Blue. Men who are as comfortable with themselves as I will be in their favorite white linen oxford shirt. I like ones that open doors and put their hand on the small of my back at the right times, the ones that laugh and sparkle with life like the reflections of Fourth of July fireworks on the water.

To say a gentleman enjoys a good sunset, can pick me up, and loves the ocean is far more tangible than a simple description of his style.  The kinds of boys for me are the ones who would appreciate a needlepoint belt that I stitched myself, who will lend me a sweater that they’ve had for years and hand me the right drink without having to ask. They’re cool and sweet, sarcastic and calm, the sound of the bell on top of a buoy, a black sky sharp with stars.

Here’s to the season of no lifeguard chairs, where dogs freely roam the beach and the wind is a little more harsh as it blows through your hair. Cheers to the water still sparkling and the sun still setting perfectly. Though the waves are still navy blue, and the sand still shimmers as water races across its back, gone are the ones who survey the water from their lofty wooden chairs and gone are the crowds they protect. This is beach season for one, a time to take walks and watch the skies as the clouds race across them pierced by the occasional flock of geese flying somewhere south in a carefully composed V. As days grow shorter and the beach grows longer, here’s to the warmer days passed and those that will follow.