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Happy New Year A.K.A. How Pope Gregory Got it Wrong




The way I look at it, Pope Gregory XII, the promulgator of the 365 day calendar that much of the world has been using for over 400 years, got it wrong. The start of the new year shouldn't be recognized on January 1, but rather, sometime in September.

Ahhh, September. The crispness of the air, the new clothes smell of students heading back to school, the injury free roster of a football team. If January 1 is known for hackneyed resolutions tinged with guilt, September should be known for that greatest of all human emotions: hope.

September, when women everywhere step into department stores and see the garish miniscule togs of summer replaced with sensible wool and cotton, they will know hope. Bathing suits and nylon cap sleeved tee-shirts have been shoved into dark warehouses for another year. Just you wait and see, polyester's going to look fabulous on me by May, but for now, swathe me in yards of fleece, please.

When Cam Newton leads his team out of the tunnel on September 9th, chiseled features framing a brilliant smile, Panther fans across the Carolinas will know the meaning of hope. The Gatorade towel on Cam's head is jaunty and original, all teams are a perfect 0-0-0, and the Panthers are going to the Super Bowl.

When junior comes home from school the first week in September and pulls out a pristine binder from a still functioning back-pack to do homework at the kitchen table, parents everywhere will know the meaning of hope. The teacher's grade book is perfectly blank, and junior's going to make the honor roll.

September is alive with hope. Tired of a blazing sun illuminating 17 hour days, we all look forward to cool nights, cozy dinners, and scarves: Friday night high school football scores, open house at a school where the principal doesn't know your kid's name yet, college campuses full of freshmen who haven't yet realized that going to class is optional.

Hope. Everyone looks good in cashmere.

By December, of course, all has been lost.

The injuries to the football teams have piled up. Cam's smile has become a grimace, and the towel only makes him seem moody. Junior never made the honor roll because he lost his back pack sometime in October. And the overpriced wool scarf that was so appealing just three months ago is itchy and stifling.

Given all of this, it's no wonder we feel compelled to get drunk and make panicky resolutions by the end of December.

But for now, it's September. A new year has begun, and for a few weeks at least, it brings out the best in all of us.

And take heart, January won't be so bad because the Panthers are going to the Super Bowl.

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