The fall semester is officially launched, but like fat to a belly, I remain staunchly attached to the remnants of summer. I refute the evidence like a seasoned lawyer even though my pigment is in an all-out fade. According to Newsweek it is time to ditch the daily shave, trash the Tory Burch flip flops, and tuck those skimpy Danskin Active shorts in the bottom drawer. I’m in such a snit over the shifting sun, the cat has decided to avoid me, and saunters out of the room like a feline elitist. We’ll see how that attitude holds up to an empty food bowl. I’m lounging on the couch refusing to acquiesce to a stack of papers in need of grading with my arm draped dramatically over my forehead. When the hell did I become such a drama queen? I wine (I prefer this version of the word) to the empty room as the wind slides through the open window and sends my calendar, papers, and lists fluttering to the hardwood floor.
I casually glance down at the calendar now open to December and realize in 111 days it will be Christmas. I really need to order that florescent light that relieves anxiety and figure out google calendar. My dog decides to rest on my insuperable pile of papers. I see the grocery list peeking out from under his belly as he slobbers on my list of resolutions (none of which have been resolved) and slaps my lengthy to-do list with his tail. The list of students I’ve yet to memorize lands at my feet. Complete fail. I need my therapist, but like the sparrow, she migrated to Florida. Hello, I have issues.
Did I mention Mary will be giving birth to the Christ child in 111 days? I decide to pretend it is still summer and attempt to fish my flip flops out of the kitchen garbage. Maybe I should listen to an Oprah meditation, I have several downloaded on my iPhone, and yes it calms me to know they are there even if I never actually meditate. I’m starting to hyperventilate over Christmas lights, black Friday, and whether or not the Amazon drone will find my house. Not that I care, but our robotic reindeer had a thing for inflatables, and took off with the neighbor’s snowman last year. Who am I to judge?
Just when I’m about to leap off the proverbial cliff I hear a car in the drive. I peek through the kitchen window because if it’s a Jehovah Witness I just might join. But no, like a pro basketball player I toss those flip flops back in the can, and sprint to the front door screaming, “There is a God!” It’s my cousin Vicky sauntering up the drive, a steaming Starbucks in each hand, she comes bearing gifts like a wise woman. Welcome back pumpkin spiced white mochas, good-bye annoying tan lines, and thank you God for belly fat that keeps it real.
Have you fallen out of summer yet? Do tell…