Nothing inspires as much dread as, or makes me cringe more than, hearing or seeing the words BACK TO SCHOOL. When I was still of school age, the appearance of those three words on circulars wedged between the pages of the Sunday paper would effect a vomitous response in me rivalled in intensity only by the stench of eggs my mother would be cooking downstairs accompanied by Frank Sinatra blaring on the radio. Years later, the mere thought of that wretched triumvirate still makes my shoulders hunch toward my ears, and my proximity to any of the three offending elements alone is enough to send me screaming into the streets, banging on a cast iron skillet with my wooden leg in protest.
In order to stave off any ill effects caused by my recollection of these events, I am going to spend the entire day caressing my new boots. I will take special care not to drool on their olive suede lusciousness. And will murmur the traditional “three little words” to them all day long. I love you … I love you … I love you …
Now, you: Back to work!