Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Sweet, gentle Reader, do not be cross with me. Summer, let us be honest, is not a season for keeping promises. It is a time for wild, idolatrous vows that fall from berry lips and hide among the bushes and brambles until Fall when their rotted, dessicated corpses are swept away with the cicada shells. And now, on the cusp of September, I return to you, scratched in unspeakable places but contrite. I have had a sobering week smiling at very stern lawyers, trying to soften them up with my sunny personality while simultaneously impressing upon them the gravity of my love for law and polished maturity. It is, for future reference, very difficult to convince lawyers of things, a lesson I should have remembered from twenty-four years of growing up with my father.
These things aside, I like the way the school year opens like a first chapter of a third volume (or in this case a twentieth volume). I like buying highlighters, pens, binders fresh in their shrink wrap and plastic cartons. And shoes of course. Have I mentionned how much I covet the new J. Crew ballet flats? Because I do. They are everything the Ralph Lauren flats used to be before they metamorphosed into the pointy-toed monstrosities of today. In any case, it's time for class. A bientot, mes liseurs gentils et misericordieux.