When I was a kid, I both dreaded and loved going back to school in September. I worried about it and longed for it. But alas, the first day was never what I expected or hoped it to be.
What’s strange is that no matter how many times I was thwarted in years before, as each Labour Day rolled around, I continued to think, against all odds, that this year would be different.
This year, I would tell myself, as I expect some of your children told themselves just this morning, will be different!
Of course, inevitably, the thick-cut cords would be far too hot and impractical for the first day of school, and I’d have to don shorts and a tee-shirt. (Possibly even the same dirty shorts and tee shirt I’d worn the day before, since my parents were very hands off in such matters.) For most of September, in fact, I’d be stuck in what had been my summer uniform. And that sucked, because summer was supposed to be over and how could I be the new person I was determined to be if I had to wear the clothes I used to wear when I was the person I was before? It was maddening. And it happened Every. Single. Year.
The first day of school was fresh, with no mistakes in it. It meant an open road to the new, better me. And year after year, my dream of a new self would be crushed before lunch time, and by noon I would begin to resign myself to being who I was, which is really, I've come to realize, who I am, no matter how determined I might occasionally be, even now, to prove otherwise.