Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose

Some things are just inescapable in the summertime. Eventually having to get into a bathing suit. Your checking account being mysteriously dry even though you are working fifty hours a week. Your love for coffee becomes a full blown addiction and you have developed a crippling case of caffeine-induced insomnia as a result.

All of these things have been mildly stressing me out the past few weeks. With my bikini neatly packed back into hiding and my final month's rent paid, I'd say I'm in pretty good shape. I'll soon be returning to the fine land of Minnesota where there is a coffee Mecca on every corner, so the coffee addiction isn't going anywhere.

That went very much off topic. While the inevitable aforementioned stressors are annoying, there are so many fantastic things that creep up when in these lovely summer months. Like crabgrass, my favorite summertime obsession starts quietly and eventually begins to overtake my life without warning. I'll give you a hint. I drove six hours to see this man in concert a few summers ago. He was nominated for best pop album at the 1998 Grammys. His initials are JT. If you just had a eureka "Justin Timberlake" moment, you are sadly mistaken. Justin was still wearing breakaway pants and singing craptastic N*Sync songs that year. Also, my father was not nominated for pop album that year, though I might travel far and wide if he ever put on a public performance. Johnny has pipes.

Give up? Then we are probably not that good of friends anyway. James Taylor. Is there anything more refreshing than his smooth vocal stylings on a hot Midwestern day? Objective answer: NO.

Every summer, I relapse on JT. I am slightly embarrassed as he sings about "his trousers" in one song, and stumble over the lyrics to a song where the background music is a combination of tropical bird noises and what has to be a full Portuguese church choir. Eventually, I am fully convinced that I could love a recovering heroine addict when I listen to my favorite song of all time, Something in the Way She Moves, which he wrote for Joni Mitchell when he was only nineteen.

If James Taylor were my boyfriend, I would definitely break my rule of not allowing men to serenade me in a romantic setting. I'd probably even let Mary Margaret sit in on it, as she is the only other person under the age of fifty that would be excited by a private JT show.

I'd make him leave after the private concert, though. He has a pretty bad track record with women, which I obviously learned when I read his six hundred page biography two summers ago. Plus he isn't aging too well.