Back to My Old Self

I’ve never been happier for the start of a new month. In case you missed it, July sucked cold rocks in the desert at night (which is to say, it really and truly sucked). The move was a nightmare—no thanks to the worlds’ worst moving company and a new home that was no where near move-in ready—and I spent the first week here suffering through a heat wave with no AC. Add in passing out in public and an allergic reaction of unknown cause (the mostly likely culprit is peanut butter, a personal loss almost too great to contemplate) and I say strongly that T.S. Eliot got it wrong: July is the cruelest month.  At least it was this year. I would say that everything that could possibly go wrong did, except I need to add that several things went wrong that seemed beyond the realm of possibility.

 

But now it’s August. And even though I woke up with a headache, I practically skipped over to the calendar, thrilled that I could finally turn the page. It’s a beautifully sunshine-filled day, brimming with potential. Today is the day that the over-the-top optimism of June will return.  It has to; I don’t think I could take another July.