The last day of school dawned grey and quiet, and I watched it cautiously from the dining room, where I had been since five AM getting in some last-minute studying for the chemistry final. I was ready for it, but there is no such thing as too much studying.
School was quiet when I arrived, a few students here or there typing up last-minute term papers or preparing for a final exam. My own final was easy; easier than it should have been, the professor's tacit apology for the rest of the semester. I wished her a good summer when I handed her my paper, since "have a nice life" seemed a rather rude goodbye.
Bryan and I met for lunch. We spoke of the writing class and O. Henry, made cheerfully catty comments about the people passing, and speculated wildly over the passing possibility of a class the Irishman wants to get a grant for, a six-week-long Irish Literature course whose first two weeks would be in Ireland. He mentioned it to us both on the chance that he gets it. The idea of studying Irish literature, in Ireland, with the Irishman, is the sort of thing that feels entirely too good to be true. To be completely honest, analyzing Joyce and Wilde for six weeks feels entirely too good to be true even without a trip to Ireland thrown into the mix.
After Bryan went on his way, I climbed the tree by the bus stop and sat in it, reading Life According to Garp until I reached my limit of amazing for the day.
The World According to Garp is one of those books I am forced to pause and savor from time to time, regardless of how antsy Bryan gets about wanting me to finish it so he can be free to talk about the ending. I do not want to reach the ending of the book. It's too good.
That's rather how I feel about this semester, truth be told.
I was feeling melancholy by the time I reached home, slightly lost. What now? my brain inquired, wanting an assignment, an essay, a deadline of some sort. I wouldn't have thought myself a creature of habit. I wouldn't have thought myself a lot of things, though. I passed a child blowing at dandelions, and paused to watch him scatter the seeds to the wind. There's an image worth keeping, my brain informed me, but no story came to mind and I realized I was already edging into boredom.
I mused on this, mused on the fact that one is only ever bored if one is boring.
Then I turned around, walked to the library, demanded they provide me with an O. Henry book, found a version of Much Ado About Nothing I haven't seen yet, snatched up their copy of A Clockwork Orange for good measure, and came home. to do massive amounts of backlogged laundry (we go to Chicago on Tuesday) with Shakespeare playing in the background.
Give your brain a break, I was advised by more than one person. Do nothing for awhile. Putz around, bullshit, read something terrible, watch reality television. Mentally shut down, at least temporarily.
To them I say, with all affection and respect,
No.
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