Sun is setting on summer.
The kids are already back in school. I’ve made the appointment for my dog’s fall annual exam. I’m thinking about Christmas gifts and how to prepare for the mounds of snow the Farmer’s Almanac is predicting.
Will I miss it?
This summer, in short, has been a disaster. But so has 2022. Everything is breaking in my house. This summer, that meant losing, at different intervals, the attic fan, the dryer, the sliding glass door…Oh, that sliding glass door! That one was horrendous–the rollers busted and the door fell off right in the midst of the well-over-hundred-degrees July. I mean, the whole month was over a hundred. The heat just poured in incessantly while we scrambled to get the door fixed. We couldn’t get cool. But that’s really been par for the course for ’22. I’ve had two weird infections that could have been covid. I had to jump through unending hoops to prove my identity to the IRS. In February, I fell through the attic.
It’s been one thing after another. And another. And another.
That’s the awful truth of this summer–it’s been one of broken family heirloom vases (I’m still trying to figure out how to repair it), and foxtails embedded in the dog’s foot. It’s been limping everywhere because I can’t get rid of this insane plantar fasciitis. (I’ve tried stretching and splints and frozen socks–frozen socks!–and right now dry cupping the bottoms of my feet.)
This summer has been rotten. And exhausting. Just like the rest of ’22. And it has stolen hundreds–hundreds–of my writing hours.
The good thing is, though, we got the new rollers on that sliding glass back door. And as soon as summer–and ’22–is gone for good, I’m locking the door behind them. 🙂