I love Labor Day, and I hate Labor Day. I love it for the obvious reasons: no work, no obligations, no major sporting events messing up the TV schedule. I hate it for more subtle reasons: end of summer, end of warm weather, end of vacations, end of sedate watermelon evenings.
My wife is excited for the start of school tomorrow. Understandably. For me, the start of school means the start of a whole bunch of other things. Dance lessons. Religion classes. Lesson plans. Grades. Meetings. I don't mind being busy, but, from now until about late May/early June, my life is no longer my own.
I'm trying not to sound melancholy, because that's not what I'm feeling. I'm more stressed than anything else. Tomorrow, I return to work full-time. I've noticed, ever since the operation last weekend, that I get tired a lot earlier. In fact, I get exhausted by about 8 p.m., and that's about three hours early for me.
But, ends happen. Autumn follows summer. I can't really fight that. I don't have to like it, though.
It's Magic 8-Ball Labor Day. I want to know just one thing:
Am I going to survive tomorrow?
And the answer from J. D. Salinger:
He didn't know what the hell I was talking about, so all he said was "Oh" and took me up. Not bad, boy. It's funny. All you have to do is say something nobody understands and they'll do practically anything you want them to.
Not bad. All I have to do is say something that makes absolutely no sense, like "Republicans should run the country."
Somehow, that doesn't make Saint Marty feel better.
Confessions of Saint Marty