Gosh! We're about to run out of July! Which means that school is imminent!
I hate beginnings and endings. Just plop me down in the middle, routine established, and I'm a good workhorse. It's the changes and additions and proposals and tentative stuff not nailed down that discourage me. I want my work life organized. If a process functioned before, there's no need to change it, simply for the sake of change. To say we did. To look good on paper. Let this sleeping dog lie. Or even lay, if you're particularly niggling in the grammar arena.
The only good thing about the first few weeks of school is that carrot-on-a-stick, Labor Day, on the horizon. I set my sights on that precious three-day weekend. That's about the time the new routine is established. And from there, I can always find a lifebuoy up ahead. Smooth sailing until Christmas. This year, I will not be dragging myself to work on days when I feel subpar, under-the-weather, out of sorts, feverish, nauseous, headachy, backachy, stiff-necked, lame, snot-nosed, pinkeyed, constipated, diarrheaed, or exhausted. Because I have accumulated so many sick days that I can accumulate no more. They will vaporize at the end of the year. POOF! No compensation. No donation to others in need. Gone! Gone with the wind. Like the spores in one of those puffball mushrooms when stomped upon.
All these years of conscientious perfect-or-near attendance, and now I can stay home sick instead of working wounded. I might as well round up a shawl and seek out the makings for a mustard plaster.
I'm hobbling down the path to the precipice overlooking the pasture.