The last day of August, to me, will always be the last day of summer.
I can remember so vividly summers as a kid. Early morning swim team practice, hazy afternoons on the tire swing, catching fireflies at dusk. We ate dinners outside on the porch and walked to Rainbow Cone daily. From the moment school got out I savored every second of sweet, sweet summertime.
All summer long, I walked around basking in bliss and yet simultaneously filled with the utter dread of going back to school come fall. You know the Sunday Scaries? Yeah, well I developed the August Scaries at the ripe old age of ten.
Though I’ve outgrown my schoolgirl days, I still experience some residual feelings of foreboding. Which seems counter-intuitive, since fall is actually my favorite season. I love the smells, the crisp air, the scarves (ALL the scarves). But deep inside my belly is a quiet sense of sadness. I mourn the loss of light-filled days and approach autumn with trepidation and unease. Please, I think, PLEASE just let me have one more day of sunshine on my face.
I think a major part of the fear is that I tend to take the term “hibernation” to a whole new level in the winter. I like the idea of getting outdoors when it’s cold, but in reality I always seem to choose my sweatpants and the fireplace over a trek outside in Chi-beria. I was just talking this over with Tom, and we came up with the idea to walk around one neighborhood in Chicago every weekend. We can get a map and check off the neighborhoods as we explore them. I think having a tangible checklist will help get me out of said sweatpants and into the world. Plus, I can usually be bribed with a cup of hot cocoa and a pair of warm winter boots.
But until then, you can find me fighting the August Scaries, soaking up every last drop of summer.