I hate this time of year. I really do.
Don't give me that incredulous look! I have my reasons....
It all goes back to my childhood when my Father used to make us erect an aluminum pole in the lounge and we'd all sit around listing all the ways that the rest of the family had disappointed us during that year. While all the other kids celebrated Christmas or Hannukah, our family celebrated "Festivus - a festival for the rest of us."
Ok, actually none of that is true. That was George Costanza's childhood, not mine.
My reason for intensely disliking this time of year is far simpler and far more current... It should be noted that last year and every year preceding that one, I loved this time of year.
What has changed, you may ask? To which I may retort: What hasn't?
Last year this time I would be beeeeeeroooooooooooooonze! None of this translucent look which I am currently sporting. I would have aquired the aforementioned hue by spending the past few weeks lazily shmultzing (there really is no other word for it) around the pool. In fact, quite possibly by now I would have been moaning (most self-indulgently in the way that only students can pull off) about how booooooooooo-hooooooooooooooored I am. About how there's nooooothing to doooowoooo. My dad would have been sternly warning me that "these are the best years of your life" and pleading with me not to say I'm bored.
Now I understand.
That's the first true sign of aging. Not the stray grey or the declining need for a social life which last pasts 12, but the point where you truly start appreciating your parents wisdom. Whip out the oil of olay, people, I'm-a gettin old!
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