I'll Take a Rain Check

It is that time again. Pencils. Paper. Long lines at Target. Crazed suburban stay-at-home moms dueling to the death over the last $1.49 stapler on the rack, their children learning a valuable lesson in elbowing and dagger eyeballs. Lurking motorcycle cops, seemingly cloned overnight. The random seasonal 'college' furniture display in the grocery store, which, really, who actually buys a room-sized rug from Fry's? "Let's see, eggs, milk, rum, toilet paper, ohhh! A room-sized rug! In grey and red! With a 1/16th inch pile. For only $60! I know it wasn't really on my list, but it is such a great deal!' Setting the alarm clock every night -- then checking it 2,000 times to make certain that it is set to the radio station that I like, the one that plays classical music, not classic rock. Going to bed at a reasonable hour.

I'm not ready.

It is only Tuesday, Day Two of the New School Year, and I am just not ready. I want a rebate coupon on my summer. Can't I have just another week? There is just so much I meant to do!

I suppose it does make logical sense, though, to end the summer at this point. Heck, even George Michael has returned to Europe for the final three shows of his concert tour. But still. I haven't yet done it all. I have a few more items on my list.

What about the rest of my Europe Trip photos? Some of them still need to be uploaded to Costco's Photo Center. It isn't just that, though. They have to be printed so that I can collate them into their proper albums. I was going to select the best ones and frame them. I even bought the frames. On Sale! I can't possibly return to work with that looming over my head!

And, my bookcase! I was going to sell my entire collection of Psychology Books. I had finally come to terms with the idea that my collection of Classical Therapeutic Literature was never going to actually have a starring role in the background of a therapist's office in a film version of The Sopranos, even though I happen to know of a therapist who was able to rent her books to a movie studio to provide just such authenticity. I get it, Universe, most film production crews don't know or care about the fact that I have a well-rounded bookcase with such super-stars as Rollo May and Piaget, covering topics pertinent to the entire human life span. I was going to figure out a way to sell them all, though. Oh no, returning to work with that task still on the agenda does not bode well. I'll come home from work, and there they will be, staring at me. Making me feel guilty for keeping them trapped on the shelf, where I no longer feel impressed with their titles and classic binding. They could have a home with some other person. Someone more enthusiastic and appreciative. Instead, they are stuck here, gathering dust, feeling unloved. A bad omen, indeed.

I never spent an entire day on the couch, reading a book, dirty dishes gathering around me.

Or baking a batch of cookies from a new recipe that was both healthy and delicious.

Or deep-frying egg rolls that I had made from scratch. I just never got to do that this summer.

Or getting a massage. I had sworn up and down and all around the town that this was the summer I was going to get a weekly massage -- because I'm worth it, don'tchaknow?

Or do 30 Days of Pilates. My abs are only going to go downhill from here -- in fact, I think my posture is starting to suffer. Am I growing shorter? Great -- I'm starting a new school year and I'm shorter. Perfect.

What about organizing the garage? Well, maybe next year, I guess. That one I can, in good faith, let go. I hadn't really believed myself when I promised to do that. Plus, I was crossing my fingers, so I'm pretty certain that doesn't count. Right?

And my blog! I have all of these great stories about my fantastic adventures from this summer. Are they anywhere on this blog? Nope. Not even a photo. For all anybody knows, I made a tent out of blankets and camped under my dining room table all summer.

Did I say one week? I need nine. Nine weeks. At least.