Listen to “Blurred Lines”. Actually, do what you want. Just don’t turn it on at a party or anything.
- Follow-up: Ironically ask “what rhymes with ‘hug me’” when you’re drunk, not that doing so was ever cute.
- Other follow-up: Make or share “Blurred Lines” parody videos that make a statement about the original video’s use of women as sexessories and allegedly rape-approving undertones. Belabored as fuck, kids. It’s done. If you want to continue waxing enraged about female objectification, there are way more relevant fish to fry. (Mmmm…fried relevant fish: a favorite post-Labor Day meal.)
Comment on how the weather is “unseasonably cool” or “bullshit hot, even for summer”. Fall weather is magically erratic and transitional, so there are no rules, so you don’t get to act surprised nor really comment on the weather at all, except to say things like, “gee, it’s pretty today” but only if you follow that up with something actually interesting. We get it: weather is weather, and it’s doing weather things.
Talk about twerking; attempt to twerk. Or even mention You-Know-Whore’s name. (Okay, I’m not actually calling Miley Cyrus a whore; she’s a mess, and annoying, and hilariously managed to make a song about ecstasy the sleepiest shit ever, but I don’t slut-shame. I just really wanted to use that pun. Puns before politics, ALWAYS.)
Flip-flops. Listen, you can argue, but I’m never going to pass up a chance to remind you all how inherently wrong it is to ever wear these “shoes” when you’re not at the beach or in a dorm shower. I’m an avid proponent of respecting each person’s ability to make the individual choices that are right for them, and of not imposing my preferences on others; this is my one exception. If you wear flip-flops to, say, a restaurant, especially after Labor Day, I literally hope no one ever touches your genitals again.
Guilt your friends into blowing off responsibilities. When it’s the height of summer, fine, whatever, days are a relentless succession of can’t-be-missed cookouts, pool/roof parties, spontaneous beach trips, all laden with potential for heat-fueled dopamine explosions that will feel so good, you’ll be nostalgically missing them even while they’re happening. Clearly, those are the experiences worth missing sleep and getting in trouble at work for. We are all granted seasonal permission to cajole our friends into accepting sleepless nights and world-ending weekday hangovers for the sake of having the Best Summer Ever. Plus, it turns out all of your friends are suddenly burgeoning DJs (YOU WORK AT A BANK are you serious) and they are “spinning” (laptoping) at a different bar every night and if you don’t come dance to “Get Lucky” in the unique way that they skillfully play it on Spotify, you could potential miss the most life-affirming, epic night of your life. Every single night. After Labor Day, it’s time to return to supporting each other in our ongoing quests to not only have indulgent, youthful experiences, but also to pursue professional and academic goals, and occasionally do healthy things for our bodies, so we don’t all end up unemployed, wrinkly, and cirrhotic when we’re 30.
Side note: If your friends are incapable of supporting your non-party pursuits, and their well-meaning nudging towards fleeting instances of irresponsibility turn into actual berating and anger for wanting to sometimes get more than 2 hours of sleep, then they aren’t your friends. They are people who are using your party presence to validate their pathological avoidance of reality, and they will suck you the fuck dry. Labor Day is a good time to cut these assholes loose too.
Obsess about your body. It’s one thing when the weather-mandated uniform everyday is As Close To Naked As Possible OMG I Can’t Breathe It’s So Hot Kill Me, but as soon as you have the option of putting a few additional layers of fabric between your (wonderfully, amazingly, sexily) imperfect body and the judgmental eyes of the world, you officially need to stop freaking out about any bit of you that isn’t entirely flattering. I mean, it’s shitty that we worry about adhering to admittedly outdated physical ideals anyway, but let’s cut ourselves a break; It’s one thing to logically know that it’s unrealistic, unfair, and actually totally boring to try and conform to a fucked up, media driven beauty standard, but that doesn’t mean we can flip a switch and magically undo the years of indoctrination about what it is to look good and rid ourselves of all compulsion to self-loathe when we don’t measure up. It’s a process, and in the meantime, summer’s stark lack of coverage can understandably stir up latent insecurities. But you know what’s so great about fall, aside from everything? We can literally cover those insecurities up with soft, warm clothes bigger than a band-aid while we continue to mentally toil against our body image oppressors in an effort to give a little less of a fuck next summer. And yes, you still might end up doing sex with someone, but for the billionth time, don’t ever get naked with someone who is so stunted in their appreciation of human bodies in general, and you in particular, that they aren’t going to be, like, torturously turned on by your gloriously weird, new body. Thou shall not remove so much as a scarf for anyone who doesn’t want to painstakingly cherish every lump, bump, and scar on you. That’s true no matter what time of year it is.
Drink before noon. Ha, yeah right. Irish coffee is what cold weather dreams are made of.