George Constanza was on to something when he declared that his upcoming summer was the Summer of George. After being fired from the Yankees, he receives three months’ pay—kind of like how every summer is for me as a teacher. I have almost three months off with pay. So I’ve declared this summer the Summer of Julie.
George’s goal is to do nothing, except read a book from beginning to end “in that order,” to which Jerry replies, “I’ve always wanted to do that.” (George never even finished Breakfast at Tiffany’s.) His second goal is to play frolf—Frisbee golf. Obviously not a reader, George strangely quotes from The Grapes of Wrath when he says, “This is going to be my time, time to taste the fruits and let the juices drip down my chin.” His idea of tasting the fruits of life is purchasing a recliner with a fridge built into its side, so he doesn’t have to get up for another Pepsi or Sprite, where he can eat his 3 Musketeers minis without leaving his chair.
While George says he needs a couple days to decompress, Jerry calls it decomposing.
My summer is not one of decomposing, but I understand George’s need to decompress. There’s an inertia, a workday trajectory that the body automates to, out of habit and routine. Even the brain needs subtle nudging to reconfigure the nine months of teacher habits, to expel such thoughts from the mind. Summer brings upon it a rebirth of an identity beyond teacher, a freedom from the bullshit of office politics, a renewal of spirit that one begrudgingly brings back to work in the fall. Yet at my age, time goes faster, the summer sky only a flash while our Midwestern winter overstays its welcome.
With each summer, I appreciate it more and more. It doesn’t matter if we have a vacation planned or not. My time is my most valuable resource, more important than money, so I wake to each summer morning appreciative and grateful that I don’t have to return to work until the middle of August. My mindset is one that ping-pongs back and forth with productivity and relaxation. Every summer greets me with a to-do list, one I have created as early as January or as late as May.
My Summer of Julie is all about writing. I have multiple projects fireworking inside my brain, in desperate need of an outlet to come into existence: my animal memoir, my disordered eating memoir, a children’s book about my dog, revising (more like overhauling) a self-published memoir so that I can sell again without cringing, and a true crime book. If I’m able to accomplish just three of those, I will be happy. I’ll be lucky to accomplish two in reality.
These massive undertakings will be done in the midst of other summer happenings: weekend road trips to see family, weekly blog essays, weekly Book Smart episodes, a half dozen random projects like organizing pictures on my computer to creating one of those mini DIY rooms. Household tasks like deep cleaning the living room or maybe finally getting new countertops are always a summer standard. Reading outside, eating under the umbrella, walking the dog…all necessary components to summer.
I envy George with his lackadaisical attitude toward his newfound summer without work. Embracing the art of nothingness, to awake each morning without a to-do list is a foreign concept to me. For as long as I can remember, I thought about what I would do on Thursday Wednesday night. I mentally prepared myself for the day the night before, completing all my Have Tos so that I could enjoy my free time unencumbered. Yet through the years, I don’t think I’ve completed anymore than the Georges of the world. Maybe my house is much more organized and cleaner, but I feel like I don’t have much to show for my White Rabbit’s sense of time’s a wasting.
But what George and I do have in common is the embracing of summer, the anticipation and joy of knowing that the next three months are ours to do with however we choose. The eight-to-five workday cannot impose on our good time, whatever we decide to do with it. My son is twenty years old, so even though I’m not officially an empty nester because my son is home from college for the summer, it’s not like I have child-related responsibilities that involve coordinating playdates and pickups and activities. And while my dog Baby is needy and temperamental, I have few daily responsibilities that are outside of my control.
Sure, the Summer of George turned sour once he slipped on the karmic invitation, but it’s the idea, the philosophy behind the Summer of George that is priceless. Appreciate the time, no matter what it is that you’re doing, because it won’t last. My Summer of Julie goal is to step into August with completed books in hand. To have something to show for my summer, to not let time slip away. To ultimately archive an existence, that the Summer of Julie mattered. As Sylvia Plath wrote in her journal the summer of 1957: “My life, I feel, will not be lived until there are books and stories which relive it perpetually in time.”