August gives me the creeps. It’s still technically summer, but in the back of my mind, I know it won’t last. It will be over before I know it and all those things on my summer bucket list that haven’t been crossed off yet are starting to get to me. It’s a case of the summer guilt.
When you think about it, the actual summer is pretty short–just three months or so. I had promised a friend we would go camping while the weather was nice. I did get a pop-up tent and a camp stove. We were going to roast hunks of raw meat over an open fire out in the wilderness, like real men, without electricity or indoor plumbing or comfortable beds or Netflix, tormented by mosquitoes and woodsmoke and raccoons. We were planning to go in July, but, for some reason, we kept putting it off.
I was definitely going to shingle the roof this summer. Of course, I had to wait for it to get warm enough for the singles to lie flat. Then July was so hot that they would have melted and left footprints. Oh well. Sometimes it’s nice in October.
Summer is the perfect time to get in shape, go for long walks, swim in the lake. My kayak hasn’t gotten wet once this summer. Every time I walk by the boat, I feel its eyes on my back, judging me. “What are you waiting for?” it seems to say, “Christmas?”
Maybe I could have learned Spanish this summer or gotten my scuba certificate or perfected a curry recipe. I had meant to spend more quality time with our greyhound, set up play dates with the neighbor’s dog. With little kids, the guilt is even worse with all the fun things you could plan for them—if only you were better organized. We were going to take a drive out to the Rocky Mountains and rent a cabin, do a little fishing. Then gas got to be $5 a gallon.
Worrying about the end of summer is probably etched into our DNA. Our ancestors understood that if they failed to harvest their crops and cut enough firewood, they would starve and freeze in the winter. And even though it hasn’t been an issue for decades, I automatically feel the dread of school starting in the fall. Do I have enough number 2 pencils and a protractor and five different-colored notebooks?
I’m beginning to wonder if it’s really such a good idea to have a “bucket list”. Even if you get around to doing all the things on that list, then there’s nothing left to do but kick the bucket. It’s like the word “fall” is meant to scare us—out of control, vertigo, twisting in space, waiting to slam into the earth. But fall is just a word, not the end of the world and it will be fine when it gets here, even if we don’t get to everything on our summer list. In fact, it’s not too late to add one more item. Enjoy this moment.