Returning to school after finishing law school almost ten years ago confirms two things: 1) life is never better than on a school’s schedule, and 2) school is wasted on young people. This week, I’m slouching into my break.
Don’t call it a summer break, okay. Nevermind that my northern nieces and nephews are stripping down. They’ll flaunt skin for boys and girls who maybe couldn’t see through Adderall vision just how easy a hook up could be. Oh, kids. Subtlety, like education, is lost on them. Summer break is and always has been to understand the disparities between love and lust, or the evolution of both. So go take off all your clothes, you northern kids, wean yourself off the stimulants, sleep late and later, savor all that sand in your teeth and bum after you make out with some one mildly interesting on a wet towel.
This break of mine is different. I’m all wool and sheepskin and the waves are devouring my beach. Winter break. It’s a break to build nests and turn on the oven to cook dead birds. There is a woman in my class who breeds ducks. She brings them– dressed and ready to be wined and dined (upon)– in a tote bag on her flights from the South Island. I think I love this detail more than anything else I’ve learned recently. I never knew you could kill a bird, remove its feathers and transport it by air in a carry-on. I thought about getting one of these dead birds to fill my preheated oven but then I’d have to eat duck. Suck it foodies. Or, I guess, cook a duck for me?
I suppose winter break is for love too. That’s cool. Cold. Whatever season rocks the break, go cop a feel. Make sure it’s consensual first and remember that body heat is the best form of conduction.