Summer gives me a slight case of melancholia. (Yes, I believe that to be a word. And if it's not, it should be.) I think of having a "summer read", of "summer activities" and even "summer vacation". Are these things really applicable? When I was a student, o so many years ago, summer reading meant something! It meant, I don't have to read anything that is required. I get to read what I want to read. I get to read Agatha Christie mysteries for three months straight, if I feel like it, dammit! But how is summer any different from winter or fall, other than temperature and the amount of daylight? I still have to get up and go to work at the same time everyday. Still have to clean my apartment and do laundry and think about what I'm making for dinner. I did take a vacation, but it is only a coincidence that it happened to be during the "summer" months.
Yet, every year, I feel it. That tingle of excitement and expectation of SUMMER BREAK!! Somewhere in the back of my sense memory I think I'm supposed to be doing something ELSE, because it is summer, and that I'm not supposed to stick to my regular routine. I have a summer reading list. Heck. My local library has a summer reading program for adults. Read three books by August 15, write a little blurb about each one and recieve a free $4 Starbucks coffee card. It's not just me, EVERYONE thinks there is supposed to be a difference to our routines because of the season. But the work thing! It just kills me. How do I find time to devote hours of unhurried ease to reading or laying around in the sun or napping when I have to keep to my daily obligations? Ridiculous.
Melancholia. That's what I have, baby.
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