First Day of School

The month of August starts the countdown for the dreaded first day of school around the country. Everyone likes to squeeze in their last minute beach escapades and soak up the most of the summer that they had dwindled away while being a coach potato zombified by netflix The Office re-runs and countless National Geographic documentaries. I hope that wasn't just me. Oh well, at least I have the inside scoop on the killer sharks that loom the bottom of Papa New Guinea or with even more kills than the tremble inducing Great White Shark the world's most dangerous gang MS 13 Mara Salvatrucha. Who said television turns your brain to mush?

Once I could see the dawn of school on the horizon I knew I had to do something about my humdrum summer. I couldn't come back from a stunning summer in gorgeous Southern California and ashamedly utter that I all I had done was work and summer school then more work and summer school and then finally to top off all the excitement some more work and summer school. I start yawning just thinking about it. So I cleared out my schedule and quit two of my jobs, finished my summer school classes, and headed to the great outdoors (since really everything else is out of my tight budget). I became a backpack-aholic for the month of August. I managed to venture out on to three trips in one month. With only one outfit for four days let's just say I wasn't so Closet-Minded.


While growing up my brother dreaded school so much so that my mom denied the word school from my vocabulary the entire summer. He couldn't even bear to hear the words let alone know which day it started. Up until the very day school began he would be in complete denial of its existence.

I on the other hand, prepared for my new beginning weeks in advance. My preparation primarily consisted of revamping my wardrobe. Each year my mom would give me an allowance of money to blow and I would come home from a tiresome day of throwing clothes on, ripping them off, and then leaving a heaping mess in the tight quartered dressing room that my mom would force me to hang up. I could never get my mind wrapped around how retail workers manage to make the clothes look so pristine hung or folded. Every time I give my best stab at it the end product looks like I struggled to make some modern piece of art that you are unable to detect its meaning and so you just give a head nod with a Jimmy Hill chin stroke.

Then I would come home and do a fashion show putting on every single article of clothing expecting a large round of applause, high-pitched scream, or some form of excitement for each purchase. After my family was thoroughly worn out from being Paula Abdul, I would hit up my next audience, my grandma, and the majority of the time her next door neighbor would be called over as well. Then came the elimination round. I would weigh the positives and negatives of each outfit, like it was some life-changing decision, in order to come up with the best first day of school ensemble. Not only would I decide what to wear for the first day, but each consecutive day following, in order of cuteness, until all my purchases had be worn. Typically I would ask my mother for her opinion and take it in to consideration and end up disregarding it and wearing exactly what I wanted anyways.
The same habitual procedure has held true even years later now that I am a junior in college. Except now the once under appreciated allowance comes from my pocket, which seems to be forming holes because I just can't figure out where all my money seems to be ending up. Tomorrow is the first day of school. The closet is loaded and ready. My decision determined.