One upon a time turning the calendar from July to August made me wince. September meant the pending loss of a loved one: summer past.
Now that first back-to-school flyer no longer dampens a summer day. No need to find the mettle to face the onslaught of students’ needs or administrators’ follies or political machinations.
How satisfying now to wake up with a wide smile, stretch, paddle down to the fridge and start the day after Labour Day with the percussive pop of a champagne cork.
Ah! Bubbles dance. How sweet not to dread that 196-day post Labour Day hangover.