Last Sunday there was a tiny cusp between the pressure cooker of school and the memory of lazy green summers with nothing to do.
At Bill's house for lunch I spotted a big trampoline and convinced Bret and Rene to join me on it. We threw our shoes under a tree and crawled up through the netting...
The old tramp had lain dormant for some time, meant for children who are now grown. It was covered with crispy little leaves, brown ovals that exploded in a chorus with each of our jumps.
Bill brought us a broom and we bid adieu to the magical leaping leaves. We continued our jumping and the tramp springs hurled us high into the sky. Arms first I leapt through the clouds, a superhero. A sun-drenched cannonball, I dove to the black cloth that threw me up into the sky again, again. Laughter pulled at my stomach, at my cheeks until they ached. Tears flew from my lashes as centrifugal force flung them into outer space.
Bret did a few flips and hit bottom, then Santa Claus rolled in:
Poor Rene. He had injured his shoulder while rock climbing a few days before, so he was trying to stabilize it:
Breathless, exhausted, we flopped on our backs and laughed about our aging.
But enough of that nonsense. It is time again to filter all my activites through the lens, "will this look good on a grad school/job application?" I am currently waiting to hear from the Institutional Review Board (IRB) at school which will determine if my McNair project meets the criteria for studies on human subjects. Meanwhile, I am revising a political science paper to submit for consideration in the Oshkosh Scholar academic journal.
When I was little, the first time someone told me that grownups don't have summer breaks, that they work all summer long, I was shocked and horrified.
I still think it's kind of a bummer.