People don't notice whether it's winter or summer when they're happy.
-- Anton Chekhov
As I wake up at 7:00 am every morning, I make a groggy note to subtract one day from my mental tally. There are only 9 days left in the school year and, though I’m reasonably sure I will spend most of the time at work, there’s something wonderfully tempting about the three months that will soon follow.
I am two weeks away from blissful summer, and I couldn’t be happier about it. (Just don’t tell my boss.)
Perhaps it’s the heat that scorches its way through our living room, turning my little apartment into a sweat lodge. Or maybe it’s the vague feeling of renewal that follows as my workload shifts away from talking to people and eases instead into dealing with shuffled papers and redesigned documents. Whatever the reason, a haze of promise looms in the distance.
But aside from a few conventions here and there, my summers tend to be pretty boring affairs. I’ve spent the last five years working straight through the heat, with nary a beach day or pool party to be seen. While players look to the new, I’m usually stuck wading through a backlog of socially stale (but singularly divine) titles. Instead of taking leisurely, refreshing rests, I stay up through the sweltering night and curse the morning buzzer.
Truth be told, summer isn’t especially exciting. Nor does it offer much that can’t be done in most of California’s 300 other days of sun. What it does present is a wonderfully escapist state of mind – the promise of summer.
Sometimes, that’s all I need to get through the week.