Profound Epiphany (NOT about clip-on umbrellas)

After a rather silly trip to the beach yesterday afternoon (we decided not to take the wagon because of the state of my shoulder, so we donned backpack beach chairs and portable clip-on umbrellas my wife bought from a thrift store, and then biked to the beach—but when we arrived, my wife—who twisted her ankle the other day when her foot fell asleep and she got up too quickly and it bent weird—stepped off her bike and onto that swollen ankle, and because she was top-heavy with the backpack chair and the umbrella, she slowly toppled over, scraping her knee in the process, and she was helped up by a pregnant lady because I couldn't help her as I was in the same situation as her, on a bike with a bunch of crap on my back, and then, on the beach, the clip-on umbrellas did NOT really work the way we thought they would: one wouldn't latch onto the chair and the other couldn't be angled properly to give much shade) I had an epiphany while we were biking home (into the wind, backpack chairs causing serious wind resistance) and it's NOT the epiphany you're thinking; I had that epiphany on the way to the beach (biking with the wagon is fucking awesome! I will always use the wagon!) but instead I realized that if things go according to plan and we both retire from teaching this year, THIS IS OUR LAST SUMMER VACATION . . . after this school year, next summer will fade into fall, fall will darken into winter, and spring will emerge from the cold—but we'll never feel the looming shadow of school and lesson plans and memorizing student names and grading and curriculum changes and IEPs and all that anxiety ever again.