June is Friday. It's still technically work time, but the end is so near you can just taste it. It can crawl by, but it's really quite bearable. The promised land of July is right around the corner.
July is Saturday--whoopee! Got no responsibilities and lots of long sunny days to fritter away. The only reason any other month exists is to be a foil for the brilliance and joy of July.
August is Sunday. This is good and bad. It's still a free day, and like June, it marks an ending. Unlike June, the end is not something I am looking forward to. I wake up each say knowing it's a day off, but also knowing that it's just one day closer to putting away the flip flops. It's kind of hard to enjoy fully.
September is SOOOO Monday. Shortening days. Fading tan. Waking up early. Back to the books. Ugh. I don't know how I survive it every year. Though I do have a theory.
I think it's because of football.
I grew up in a football-friendly household. I won't say my parents were quite fanatical, but they were enthusiastic for sure. Sunday afternoons meant going over to our friend's house for junk food, soda and witnessing some very loud and embarrassing parental carrying on. When our Patriots ever made it to the playoffs or, heaven help us, the Superbowl, it just meant more friends, more junk food (and unfortunately more embarrassing parents). Those were good times.
So when August rolls around and that end-of-summer letdown is kicking in all I have to do is stumble across a preseason game on TV and for a moment I am strangely soothed. I don't even know which channel it's on, or what the name of the announcer is. In fact, I honestly don't know or even care much about the game itself. I just know I like it.
Then before I know it, Sunday and Monday and even September are some of my favorite times. Heck, football carries me right through Christmas!
Now what to do about February...