Pickleball Is What Diversity Workshops Wish They Were

I hate Sundays. I always have.

I know Buddhists tell me to live in the present, but I live perpetually in tomorrow's shadow. Sunday is the day before dreaded Monday; and come Sunday afternoon, I'll start feeling blue, wanting nothing more than to watch bad made-for-TV movies on my living room couch.

I hate Sundays.

I'm writing this essay early August. And August, at least for us lucky academics, is the Sunday of the year. Sure, I've got a month before syllabi and office hours reclaim my soul, but September looms like Walter's rage when someone steps over the line. This August hits different though: it’s my sabbatical's death rattle. Go ahead, play your tiny violin. I'm a privileged professor lamenting the end of his year-long vacation (ha!). But don’t us ivory-tower types also bleed when pricked (couldn't resist)?

Instead of wallowing, I've decided to look back at this year and reflect. I set two goals for myself for my sabbatical. In addition to my usual research, I took on two extra cha…