Summer is a season we welcome, not endure, armed with SPF 50 (under a hat if you’re me), iced coffee, and the kind of delusional optimism that says, “Sure, let’s take a road trip with the dog and a 2006 GPS.” The glitter confetti chaos of Pride, the inexpensive glory of minor-league baseball, and the panting joy of the dog park, ankle-deep in grass clippings and wet tennis balls.

Let’s begin with road trips, that great tradition of fleeing our own neighborhoods to spend $200 on snacks and gas to stare at a cornfield where some minor pop cultural note happened between 40 and 10,000 years ago. Somewhere around mile 47, the dogs and people get bored, and then the game is on. You’re rationing pretzel sticks like it’s post-apocalyptic and trying to remember the beer has to stay in the cooler till you stop. But hey, it beats folding laundry. And there’s always the reward of a roadside custard stand with the health rating labeled “Pending.”

Then comes Pride, Forest Park-style. If you’ve never seen a rainbow flag hanging between two dive bars while the Chi-rish T-shirt brigade stay inside, you haven’t lived. The parade is a slow, fabulous tornado — glitter, body paint, and at least one overly ambitious interpretive dance troupe. God bless Madison Street — anything that increases the bar revenue is welcome.

Minor league baseball, meanwhile, is the sport of the people — if “the people” are just there for dollar beers, nacho cheese product, and watching a man in a mascot suit lose a fight with a T-shirt cannon. We pile into Chicago Dogs games like a religious rite. No one really knows the players’ names, and by the seventh inning, we’ve all become armchair managers yelling things like “Let the kid pitch!” even though the “kid” is a 32-year-old journeyman from Tallahassee. We don’t care. The hot dogs are real, the stakes are fake, and the parking is free. That’s winning.

And finally … the dog park. The canines gather to settle scores, hump, and ignore commands. (Who says we don’t have a high school?) Yoga moms and dads in cargo shorts bond over poop bag brands and horror stories about doggy diarrhea. My own beloveds have a running feud with a goldendoodle that has reached Cold War levels of strategic ball possession. You haven’t known true civic engagement until you’ve tried to mediate a three-way growl-off at 8 a.m. on a Tuesday.

But that’s summer here. It’s slightly chaotic, oddly sticky, mildly inappropriate. (Like me!) The best things about it are the things we didn’t plan — the spontaneous hose fights, the convertible karaoke, the 6-year-old in the “Pride is for everybody!” shirt covered in Sno-Cone dye and glitter. Even the cicadas scream in agreement. Loud, obnoxious, and impossible to ignore. They’re quieter this year, I assume having moved their droning to Facebook.

So if you see me, sunburned and over-caffeinated, a rainbow flag in one hand and a souvenir bat in the other … don’t judge. Join me. Summer only lasts until someone throws up in the back seat of the road trip van, and then we’re back to school supply sales. Until then, let the sunscreen be thick, the bratwurst be overcooked, and the chaos be glorious.