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  • Tara R

WHEN SEPTEMBER COMES...


Ahhh, summer. None of us want it to end, right?! Except maybe me. I wasn't sure I ever believed that too much of anything was a bad thing, except maybe this summer vacation.


At this point, I am a reluctant gadabout, bon viveur no more. I am done with shuttling my kids to and fro, day and night, without so much as a tip or simple pleasantry. I’m done with making small talk in scorching hot driveways, while I wait for my AC to kick in. I am done having to search for the car keys (when my nonbillable hours are technically over) because someone left a window open. Done with hearing the asylum-decibel blame game that ensues because my children are angels, and it must have been ME who opened the back seat window despite that very action causing my eardrums to almost blast out of my skull and careen off 27. I am done with people casually mentioning to me that they are surprised I know how to drive. I am done with the sunscreen, and the bug spray, and the bees, and the bikers who refuse to wear helmets on the most precarious of roads during a spectacular golden hour that could make you cry AND leave you blind. I am done with spotty cell service, texts that “did not send”, and ending conversations with "hello?! Are you there?! Did I lose you? Helloooo!? God I fucking hate the Hamptons."


I am done with anxiously backing out of peoples’ driveways. I am done with having to track down a manicure. I am done with possible shark sightings, and lots of people with advanced degrees chattering inanely about is that or is that not a jellyfish. I would rather be crossing 86th in full-on panic mode because there’s some crazy coming straight at me screaming about Armageddon than having to worry that my daughter might lose an arm in the four feet of Ocean water that I spent 8 college tuitions to live nearby. I am done with rose headaches at all hours of the day and night, AND if I never have to see another long floral frock in my life again, it will be a day too late. I would rather hear the sweet sound of my child complaining about homework than the nails-on-chalkboard bemoaning that they are bored, and what is the plan? The bubble must burst.


I’m a city girl. I have reached my limit on guacamole, gummies, and gibberish. I want to wear all black, I want to throw on a coat, and I want the next patch of sand that I see to be sucked through the noisy wand in the hands of my highly-skilled eastern European esthetician. I want to talk about what shows I need to see and what restaurants I need to try, to get awkward around my doormen when I order in from four different places, to schedule a rainbow of tutors, and to complain that my kids don’t get enough exercise.


I see you, September, and I'm here for you...!


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