And BAM! just like that, summer is over. Every one in the household has either gone back to school, gone back to work or just gone crazy. Even the dog has started carrying a briefcase. The mood is somber. Business-like. Flip flops have been stowed. Tans have started to fade. The lazy starts to the morning have been replaced by something resembling a panicked mob fleeing Godzilla.
Oh, summertime vibe, where have you gone?
Determined to hold onto some semblance of that relaxed, cherished time — when the living was easy — I’ve instituted new rules in a desperate attempt to hold onto the fleeting feeling. Here is the law I have laid down in my house:
• Everyone must wear bug spray or suntan lotion, even if they’re staying in doors. This is to mimic that wonderful smell of summer. Anyone caught not wearing some will be required to don 1980s zinc oxide sunblock on their nose and cheeks.
• A fine coating of beach sand will cover all flooring in the house, as well as every seat in the car. In addition, beach towels, pool noodles and boogie boards must be strewn across the porch. Every inch must be covered. Visitors should mistake our house for a touristy beach towel shop and will come in asking if we sell conch shells and sharks teeth.
• Conch shells and sharks teeth must be prominently displayed.
• No attempt will be made to enforce a reasonable bedtime earlier than 2:30 a.m., as this is the time a “summer” house finally gets to sleep.
• Nothing worn can match. Nobody ever cares what he or she looks like in the summer, so that must carry over. Patterns should clash. Neon colors so bright that they blind aircraft must be worn. People on the street should stop and stare at the summer-y spectacle … until they remember they have also accidentally worn a T-shirt as a pair of shorts.
• No beds will be made. Not until November.
• Grumpiness is strictly forbidden. Crying in one’s cereal is strictly forbidden. Talking about being tired, about hating school/work/regular routines or about how many days there are to Christmas is strictly forbidden. All conversations must start with a discussion of ocean water temperatures or whether seagulls actually aim at sunbathers when they relieve themselves.
• For no reason, and under no circumstances, will anyone be allowed to mention NEXT summer. That can only imply THIS summer is over. And it isn’t. It just can’t be. Not yet. Not if you don’t want me to start crying in my cereal. So if you’ll excuse me, I have to go mismatch my clothes and apply my unnecessary sunscreen.