The Slump Hump

There is a specific kind of tired that is unique to August. It is not the tired of hard work, or the sleepy tired of a fitful night, or even the tiredness of too much fun. It's the listless tiredness of nothing in particular, sustained over several weeks, in insufferable humidity, while half of everyone around you is on vacation, or taking one in their head. It is, and always will be, the month of slump.

August is the Sunday of months. Not a real day off — more of a day spent bracing for Monday. We call it summer's last hurrah, but let's be honest: nobody's hurrahing. We're just lying on the floor of the season, waiting for Fall to kick the air conditioning back on. 

Here in Richmond, August has its own dialect of stillness. The James River still runs, but lower, slower, warmer, like it too can't be bothered. The porches — normally our great civic stage, where opinions are formed and gossip is legislated — fade to quiet by midmorning. Even the cicadas, whose main purpose in life is to scream their little heads off, seem to be calling it in. 

Something to consider: the entire architecture of a calendar year is built on a series of fresh starts. New Year's Day. The first day of school. The Monday after a long weekend. The aftermath of National Doughnut Day. We are trained, practically from birth, to treat time as a series of doors we walk through in order to become slightly different, slightly newer people. January says new year, new you. September says back to business. But August says nothing, or as is her way, talks so softly you can’t make it out.  August offers no doors. It is a long, hot hallway between two rooms, and we are all just standing in it, sweating, waiting to be let into September. 

And maybe that's the gift, if we're willing to take it. A loophole of sorts. A month with no door is a month with no script, no audition, no report card. Nobody's grading August. No commercials either, unless you count that Back to School! infomercial constantly buzzing in the background. Even the online influencers have given up, skipping the “5 a.m. cold plunge” heat relief challenge and moving straight to “never fail lunchbox kimchi.” The culture, for once, has quietly agreed to lower its expectations of everyone. 

I'd argue that slump month is actually one of the only truly honest months we get. The rest of the year runs on a kind of performed momentum — we say we're building toward something, we say this quarter is different, we say the new habit will stick this time. August doesn't bother with the performance. August just sits there, fanning itself, daring you to pretend you have big plans.   “Child,” says August, “If you make me get off this sofa, I’m going to come over there and give you something to cry about.”

So here is my modest proposal: if you find yourself fighting the slump, just stop. Don't try to August your way into a New You. Let the tomatoes and zucchini overwhelm the counter, let the cicadas hum, and let the whole month be exactly as unproductive and directionless as it insists on being. Just underneath the guilt we've been trained to feel about relaxing, there's something reflective . A whole month with nowhere, or nobody, to be. A whole month where just waiting is a perfectly acceptable summer job.

The slump ends, as slumps do. September will show up, self-important as ever, insisting we all suddenly care about pumpkin spice and productivity. But for now, for these last few weeks of heavy air and slow rivers and cicadas hollering into the void — I say we take the loophole. Do less. Mean it less. September will still be there, holding the door, whether or not you are ready to walk through it.