You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Rain on Labor Day.
What is about rainy Labor Days.
I would say it rains every Labor Day. Maybe it just feels like it rains every Labor Day. If Halloween is candy and rum, then Labor Day is darkness and foreboding dread. Even a sunny Labor Day is a storm cloud in my soul.
Why does it always seem to be dreary every Labor Day?
I don’t assign this feeling to Thanksgiving or Christmas or St. Patrick’s Day. These calendar events are singularly bright with confetti and green beer.
But Labor Day stands out as a dark rain cloud of a calendar event.
Why? Perhaps because Labor Day is the unofficial end of the Summer.
The Beach Boys endless summer dies and another quarter of grin and bear it begins.
The calendar still says it’s hot and it’s still summer, but Labor Day says pull up your boot straps cowboy because all that is about to end.
Labor Day screams “Hey sailor, you wearing a fur thong?”
Get ready to transition North America, the winter? She is a coming.
Perhaps Labor Day means nothing in Brazil where saggy boobs and pina coladas swirl in a golden dome of sunshine.
But north of the equator, the wicked witch of the west is beating a broom stick, stirring a pot of evil incantations.
Labor Day is a symbolic monster that orders you to put away those white pants even though it could be 92 degrees out.
Labor Day is that mean girl who reminds you the leaves will soon be changing.
Labor Day is poop on the bottom of your shoe telling football widows that High School, College & Pro football will dominate male thoughts for the next 147 days.
Labor Day is the car that runs out of gas that spews an exhaust cloud that teachers in every class will be assigning 30 minutes of home work tonight.
When it’s Labor Day you walk into your clothes closet differently. It’s like a treasure map and you need a clue.
Where are those clothes I don’t like again?
You stare at the hangers wondering where the sweaters, turtle necks and long sleeve shirts are.
With Labor Day come stupid thoughts like do I need to over-seed and aerate the lawn fill? My answer is always no and the neighbors who do can kiss my ass.
Labor Day is upon us. It always seems to rain. Maybe it just seems dark and cloudy and final.
Labor Day is a seasonal buoy that marks the end of something bright and warm and green with a red blinking navigational beacon that screams proceed ahead to cold and dark and long days of drudgery.
Labor Day is the close of that great book you wish never ends. You close the cover and you stare at your thoughts and think “Wow! Now what?”
What is Labor Day? Why do we even celebrate this dark and enigmatic marker of foreboding?
According to the Google Gods:
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History of Labor Day. In 1894, Grover Cleveland made Labor Day a federal holiday after a failed attempt to break up a railroad strike. Observed on the first Monday in September, Labor Day pays tribute to the contributions and achievements of American workers.
George Washington? 1st President.
Abe Lincoln? Freed the slaves.
Grover Cleveland? Labor Day.
Way to go Grover. Nobody knows who the hell you are anyway.
So Labor Day is here, upon us. Perhaps it is sunny where you are. If it is, then go to the pool and think about how this is your last chance to lay out. Soon you can let yourself go, allow your flab to float over your waist band like a saggy bag of good. Who cares, you’ll be wearing 10 sweaters that make everyone look like a weeble who wobbles but doesn’t fall down.
If it’s raining where you live, then realize it’s Labor Day, the end of the sun, the beach, the green grass of your youth.
Labor Day is the passage of time, another year about to speed up as we put the fall bullet into the chamber of life’s revolver and pull the trigger.
BANG!
In a cocophounous rush of unsettled power, the labor day bullet streaks from the chamber. Suddenly it’s Thanksgiving and the Macy’s Day Parade. Suddenly it’s Sponge Bob Square Pants balloons and travel headaches and planes being de-iced in Laguardia.
The Labor Day bullet cannot be stopped as it wrizzes through time and space bringing the 90 days of Christmas advertising and nauseating commercialism that make Crazy Eddie seem like elevator music.
Labor Day’s bullet strikes the frontal lobe in an explosion of pulp and flesh and suddenly it’s New Year’s and the calendar page turns. Confetti and horns and humans singing Auld Lang Syne.
But the next day you are walking to the mailbox thinking, damn it’s cold and why am I forcing myself to go to the gym and swear of menthol cigarettes?
Labor Day is the grim reaper of calendar hijinx. Labor Day is a slippery slope of falling, tumbling into the end of year abyss that spells dark and dreary and finality.
Suddenly it’s parkas and 4 feet of snow in Buffalo. Suddenly it’s shopping lists for people loved and those not so much.
Labor Day is the knock on the door from teenagers selling fake magazines. It is the wake up call signifying that everything is about to change. It’s office parties and grey skies and the smell of soot in the sky.
So while you enjoy your Monday off, think about what it means. It’s not about Grover Cleveland’s Labor Day. It’s about the unmistakable feeling that the end is upon us.
Is it raining? Does it matter?
Labor Day.
Life’s Crazy™