There’s this thing called the November Blues. When your year starts in September, and your break doesn’t come until the end of December, and the weather’s getting colder and you just seem to get more and more sunk in work, and even the thought of all the stuff you have to do over Thanksgiving makes you want to crawl under the covers and never crawl back out, that’s November Blues. And I have ’em. Right now.
I sent a pinch-clicker to my registration appointment because I couldn’t get out of work. She did very well; she got every one of the classes I’d asked for, but I wasn’t all that excited. I was grateful, of course, but still a little sad. A little November Bluesy. Because all those classes she clicked for me to take next semester are should classes. They’re things I should take. For my major, my certificate, my possible thesis. And it’s not that I don’t want to take them. I do like the subjects—that’s why I chose the major and the certificate in the first place. It’s just that I don’t have much of a choice.
One of my more perceptive friends recently said that she feels her life is being overruled by shoulds lately. She should watch that film for French. She should think about going abroad. She should think about her thesis. And so should I.
I should take my vitamins, get to the gym more. I should start that final paper. I should call my grandmother. I should plan ahead farther, do more outside reading.
But some of the shoulds conflict with others. I should do my math set, but I should also take advantage of this fall weather. I should take a walk. I should get some reading done, but I should really attend that lecture this afternoon.
There aren’t enough hours in the day.
Cue my hyper-developed Jewish conscience: I feel guilty. There are so many things I should do these days. To write them all down would take hours. And it seems every time I turn around something new plops itself on my desk with a big pink post-it screaming “urgent!”
I’m really good with deadlines. I’m almost never late for appointments; I always get up on the first note of my alarm. So all my work gets done, and one by one the bright pink post-its pile up in my recycling bin.
But I hate living in shoulds. I hate rating the shoulds. I hate that the urgent shoulds keep me from the less pressing shoulds, the vaguer shoulds, the walks and the phone calls. Because something always falls by the wayside. Lectures go unheard and movies go unseen and I go without sleep because I live in shoulds.
I have had enough.
I am taking a stand.
I hereby proclaim The Day of Nancy. One day of each week I will turn off the alarm. I will paint my toenails purple and dance around in my underwear. I will neither answer emails nor acknowledge post-its. I will watch Disney movies.
There are no shoulds on The Day of Nancy; there are only impulses. I will eat an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s if the spirit moves me, and goddammit I will not feel guilty about it. I will like it.
It’s gonna be a blast.
It’s been so long.
‘Cause man, I just feel so old lately. I found four gray hairs the other day. My arthritis is acting up in the cold. Two of my best friends’ younger siblings just got engaged. There are definitely wrinkles threatening around my eyes. And suddenly I am scrubbing out the sink in my kitchen grumbling about how these college kids have no sense of responsibility and wondering just exactly where to put the cake in my station wagon to get it to Long Island safely for Thanksgiving. Two people this fall (two!) smilingly asked if I was my older brother’s older sister.
I’ve been told I’m an old soul.
Well, screw my old soul. On The Day of Nancy I’m going to read Berenstain Bears books. And maybe one of those silly romance novels I loved when I was twelve. Forget Sartre. Put away Virgil. I’m going for Winnie the Pooh and Dr. Seuss. And I’m going to watch TV with no redeeming value whatsoever. And I’m not even going to knit while I watch, as I usually do, because on The Day of Nancy I won’t feel guilty about all the time I’m spending unproductively staring at the boob-tube.
Maybe I’ll go all out. Maybe I’ll paint my fingernails too.
And maybe I’m lying to myself: I know perfectly well the Jewish Mother voice in my head won’t allow a Day of Nancy every week. I grew up without the concept of the mental-health day. Only a hundred-degree fever or projectile vomiting kept me out of school when I was younger. So I definitely won’t be able to skip class for The Day of Nancy. That would be a shanda. A scandal. And one day a week is an awful lot to ask from my disgustingly strong sense of should. So… I’m currently bargaining for one Day of Nancy before the end of the semester. Probably during reading week.
So reading week. Fine.
One day.
The Day of Nancy.
The day of guilty-free regression and bad eating.
I think it’s a necessity for all of us overworked and under-rested crazy college students. We all need to take one day and banish the November Blues. For twenty-four hours, overrule the shoulds that have been overruling us. And really bloody well enjoy it. The Day of Me.
I’m getting excited already. I can feel the November Blues fading as I write.
But now, I guess… I should really get some work done.
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