I Remember September


Ahhhhhhh. A new month. A new month that starts on a Sunday.
A perfect time to make some sort of resolution. Go on a diet. Vow never to do something again. Or vow to take up something new.
It’s like a fresh, smooth page in a crisp, new notebook. A notebook that’s waiting for the first day of school …
Which reminds me of how much I used to hate Labor Day, because it meant that school was sure to follow, a la Mary’s little lamb. Even though I excelled in school, I despised it — especially the first day. Just thinking about starting a new school year made my stomach jerk around like a marionette operated by a caffeinated spastic. And once the school year started, every Sunday was sheer torture — especially at 7:00 p.m., when the ticking of the “Sixty Minutes” clock reminded me that I was a mere sliding board ride away from the start of another school week.
Even now, 22 years since the start of my high school senior year, my stomach still flops at the mere sight of the words “Back to School” as they scream at me from advertisement circulars or mock me in store windows. I still dream that I’m in school and I’ve forgotten to study for a test, or I’ve completely forgotten to attend math class, or, of course, I’ve neglected to switch my towel for actual clothes.
However, as much as I loathed school, and as much as my stomach still refuses to settle down, I now regard September with a fair amount of excitement — a good kind of excitement. I consider September the start of Fall, even though it doesn’t “officially” begin for several weeks. It makes me want to run outside and wait under a tree for the leaves to change color.
As much as August enervates me, September energizes me. I feel like doing something.
I love feeling like I am “back” — not to school, thank god, but to “cool”.