This Friday is my last half day of the summer. Beginning next Friday, the weekend will be a dismal four hours further from me every week.
Then, Monday is Labor Day, and I guess Labor Day always alludes to the ex-communication and scorn of anyone wearing white apparel, also known as the End of summer. Among the many socially appropriated things that I don't agree with is the disapproval of wearing white after Labor Day. You don't want people to think you're clueless to American gimmicky norms, but you also don't want to follow them either. So you actively defy it. Wear all white all the time. White seems to be acceptable in the winter because by that time, others have forgotten about the existence of summer, but in the fall, people avoid it like the plague. This is your time to shine.
As much as I do like to wear white (as commonly misunderstood due to the explanation about to be explained...), I like to wear black even more. This trend stopped a bit when I graduated from college for no particular reason. Perhaps it was the lure of the midwest, because when I moved to New York, I knew immediately that black was going to take over again.
This year's summer felt subdued and anti-climatic. For roughly 16 years of my life, I've always looked forward to summers. Once you're finished with institutionalized education, it's just the weather that changes, but everything else carries on as usual. I'm okay with that, but the transition just doesn't seem as stark as it used to be, which was nice every once in a while. I guess if I look back at all that I did this summer, it wasn't so much traveling as it was getting acquainted with New York in the summertime, and I have to admit, it was joyous.
My coworker recently mentioned that pumpkin spice season was upon us, which evidently got me excited. Yes, I do follow this trend. It reminds me of the excitement I get when I think about going home, and this isn't really a good thing: I always have high expectations, and then I go home and my expectations are never met. Holidays for me are the same. Maybe it's because I don't decorate Christmas trees anymore. Regardless, every pre-holiday season, and every time I book my flight home, I still feel excited. Like a very loyal dog. And I guess I don't mind embracing the rare optimism in my life.
Speaking of family. This is an amazing and tragic and beautiful series of essays written by Celia Watson Seupel in the NY Times on the topic of living with her 94 year old mother with dementia. I fear the day that I might take care of my parents, not because I'm reluctant, but because of the emotional reality I won't want to accept. When I was young, I watched my mom take care of my grandmother (who had Alzheimer's) at home, until finally it became so difficult we had to put her in a nursing home. These essays reminded me of The Corrections and how reading it made me feel. If you are at all interested in gerontology or mental health, you may want to visit Seupel's work.
