It's fucking frightening
It is. I'm doing summer school this summer, and so these few weeks between exam prep hell and grade twelve English and history are rather busy with library research seshes, and eating my weight in backyard-grown berries, Breyers vanilla, and matzah leftover from Passover, while reading All Quiet or Night or whatever else I need to read.
So it's summer, school's out, and I've got assignment anxiety all over again. But I'm busy. And I like being busy. I've got things to do, and days to plan, and deadlines to meet, and it's stressful, but I can deal with it. But what if I didn't have any of this to do? What if I had an absolutely empty summer in front of me, full of sticky July days and humid August nights, with nary a plan in sight? Instead of relaxing me, that makes me want to hyperventilate.
I'm insane, aren't I? I've just finished a year of death by trig identities and French grammar and crew practice at 4.45, and two months without anything required should be welcome. But it's not, because I have no fucking idea what I'd do with all that time. The answer should be obvious. I could sleep in, read the books I never have time to read, go running/swimming/cycling... have ice cream with the hurly burly girlies, and watch chick flicks with the boy toys, and see plays and suntan in the backyard and volunteer and take up yoga or spinning, and write another play, and get smashed in the suburbs (or at least pretend), and... all that typical teenage summer stuff. But I still can't deal with that. That's too much free time. Too many hours of... nothing planned and minutes wasted and... life is streaming by in a series of melted popsicles and movie theatre popcorn and... and it's hyperventilation half begun.
Are our lives that segmented, that structured, that formal, that we can't deal with eight weeks of freedom? I guess it began with the "enriched" daycare after school, then Mummy will drive you to ballet/piano/art/gymnastics/swimming, and you've got rollerblading lessons on Saturdays, and a math tutor because an A- isn't good enough, and... you're only eight, but your agenda is fuller than a CEO's of yesteryear. The yummy mummies pushed their progeny to perfection, and I don't dare imagine the end result.
So it's summer, school's out, and I've got assignment anxiety all over again. But I'm busy. And I like being busy. I've got things to do, and days to plan, and deadlines to meet, and it's stressful, but I can deal with it. But what if I didn't have any of this to do? What if I had an absolutely empty summer in front of me, full of sticky July days and humid August nights, with nary a plan in sight? Instead of relaxing me, that makes me want to hyperventilate.
I'm insane, aren't I? I've just finished a year of death by trig identities and French grammar and crew practice at 4.45, and two months without anything required should be welcome. But it's not, because I have no fucking idea what I'd do with all that time. The answer should be obvious. I could sleep in, read the books I never have time to read, go running/swimming/cycling... have ice cream with the hurly burly girlies, and watch chick flicks with the boy toys, and see plays and suntan in the backyard and volunteer and take up yoga or spinning, and write another play, and get smashed in the suburbs (or at least pretend), and... all that typical teenage summer stuff. But I still can't deal with that. That's too much free time. Too many hours of... nothing planned and minutes wasted and... life is streaming by in a series of melted popsicles and movie theatre popcorn and... and it's hyperventilation half begun.
Are our lives that segmented, that structured, that formal, that we can't deal with eight weeks of freedom? I guess it began with the "enriched" daycare after school, then Mummy will drive you to ballet/piano/art/gymnastics/swimming, and you've got rollerblading lessons on Saturdays, and a math tutor because an A- isn't good enough, and... you're only eight, but your agenda is fuller than a CEO's of yesteryear. The yummy mummies pushed their progeny to perfection, and I don't dare imagine the end result.