The Sunday of Summer

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Just as I was being lulled into dreamland by lake water gently rocking my raft, I was jolted back to reality by my friend’s voice.

“It’s almost August, you know. That’s the Sunday of summer,” she said flatly, almost harshly.

I opened my eyes, still hidden behind my sunglasses and replied, “What are you trying to do? Why are you interrupting my bliss with this nonsense?”

“I didn’t make that up, you know. August is the Sunday of summer. It’s a quote I saw on the internet and it is absolutely correct. Think about it!” she bellowed.

Suddenly, all of summer’s magic flashed before my eyes in a blur – sand, sun, surf, popsicles, hammocks, dogs running on beaches. I could hear the droning, merciless clock of life ticking away and I wondered how I could squeeze enough summer into the coming few weeks to tide me over through the long fall and on through to next spring.

Why do we always need to point out that the end of something good is nigh?

On Saturday nights, we always feel the need to give a reminder to whomever is within earshot that the weekend
is almost over. We like to give ourselves these cues, almost like a call to action to get in the good stuff while we can. Even when I am down to the last macaroon in the bakery box, I always stop short, reminding myself it’s the last one, and to eat it slowly, savoring every bite.

Instead of waiting until the countdown to the end of something good to fully savor it, why not enjoy every bite … or minute, depending on what we are savoring?

I have to admit that I have wasted a lot of time this summer – rearranging my closet, cleaning my baseboards and, ironically enough, complaining that summer never lasts long enough.

Maybe my closet and baseboards could have waited until fall.

The country song, “Live Like You Were Dying” is all about getting the most out of this life. You won’t find many anthems in any musical genre that glorify fretting about something being over, rather than enjoying it right now while it’s happening.

I usually only get a dozen macaroons in a package. Suppose I slowed down and appreciated that I only had so many, and should enjoy each one, not just the last one. It might not make summer any shorter if I lived each day as if it were the last, but it would make summer much better, more memorable, and leave less room for regrets about wasted time.

The reality is that it’s always the “Sunday” of something. In fact, most of us don’t know when the Sunday of our lives will happen, which makes it seem even more urgent for us to enjoy every moment as much as possible … right now.

 

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