There’s something about September. The dip in temperature, the need for jackets and scarves (and brollies – this is England), the shortening days. And,of course, the sense of a fresh start. I love the feeling of Sundays spent organising for the week ahead, of good intentions, of a renewed sense of purpose.
I am a fresh start junkie. No, I am an addict of planning a fresh start. In preparation for a week of healthy eating I could spend the whole weekend clearing out cupboards, collating recipes, writing shopping lists and imagining the new wardrobe of clothes my trim new waistline will require. At Christmas, and new year and on every birthday I write copious amounts in my diary about how I’m going to be a shiny new person once this imaginary line in the sand has passed.
September is the best of all these fresh starts. For me, someone who actually works in a school, it comes after a long break so that I feel excited and ready to resume my routine. I’ve had long enough off to come up with some really solid plans of how I would like this school year to go. Usually my plans involve wearing excellent jumpers and not crying in December when the flu and Christmas shopping stress converge in what I like to call: HELL. I might also throw in something about drinking more water and being more productive (a blanket term that implies I will stop doing all the things that make be a bad person). I write all these things down in my brand new notebook using my brand new pen and my best handwriting. Then I put them into my handbag which I have cleared of all receipts and hoovered the biscuit crumbs out of.
For the first few weeks of September I lay the clothes for the following day out the night before and I pack a nutritious lunch before I go to bed. I start each morning with, dare I say it, excitement and due to my efficiency everything runs smoothly and nothing seems hard. Because I’m on top of the housework, when I get home I’m able to enjoy reading, watching a film or writing without worrying that I should really be cleaning the kitchen before the mouldy dishes become sentient. I go to bed early and happy and prepared for the next day.
Then, one weekend I might leave the washing up and the laundry to fester because I drank too much cheap white wine on Saturday night and now I want to be in a completely dark, completely silent sanctuary where nobody touches me. I might have to scramble around on Monday looking for clean tights and a blouse that goes with the only pair of trousers that don’t have yoghurt on them. I end up rushing to work because I left late, my whole day feels flustered and hurried. I have a red, sweaty face and my fringe sticks to my forehead. When I get home, the satisfaction of getting things done and being organised can’t offer me the same solace as a slab of lasagne and a glass of wine in front of Bake Off. Heavily carbed and half-drunk, I crawl into bed without taking my make-up off. And so I go back to my old ways; I do things half heartedly and at the last minute.
I know all this. That somewhere at the end of September, or the start of October if I’m really lucky, all my energy for being organised will slip away. Though I might try to get it back it will elude me – seeming only to work in conjunction with a societally acknowledged ‘reset’ time – like the beginning of September, or a birthday. I won’t be able to properly get myself straight till the new year – the most widely accepted fresh start of them all.
These ‘fresh start’ dates don’t hold any special power that I know of. I know that this Monday is as good as any other Monday to start being a better version of myself. I also know that making a mistake doesn’t mean you should give up, you can have a weekend off, or start the week with a bump and turn things around on some unimportant Wednesday. But it never has the same sort of gleeful energy when you do it that way.
And even though I know all this will come crashing down in the near future, I’m still excited for my September fresh start. I’m still approaching it with joy and a fresh notebook and a neatly written to do list that is not written on the inside lid of a tampon box. I’m enjoying the fact that I used fabric conditioner and all my clothes now smell like tropical flowers. I keep staring at my impeccably organised handbag with wonder. My nails are painted, my eyebrows are plucked, my bookshelves are tidy.
I feel like I can conquer the world, or at least the next two weeks.
Do you love a fresh start? What do you like to do to get organised? Let me know in the comments or email firstname.lastname@example.org