“Inspiration comes with a deadline,” quipped Art Buchwald when asked how he responds to his publisher’s demands.

And so it goes, right? Deadlines are like property taxes and April 15 and the day your car registration is due and when your column needs to be finished and that thankyou note needs to get written and you’ve got to clean out your garage before your motherinlaw arrives and I haven’t balanced my checkbook for two years and I’m off by $500.

I don’t know about you, but this is the time of the year, post-Labor Day, when I start dancing as fast as I can. In front of me, at the end of my bumpy horizon, I see Halloween, Thanksgiving and—oh, may the Lord help me—Christmas. To say nothing of the daily grind, which is intensely electrifying, like the lights of Paris.

To prepare myself for the onslaught, I did absolutely nothing of merit on Labor Day. Not squat. I’m very good at being completely worthless and, frankly, enjoy it immensely. After watching a few thousand tennis balls fling off highly engineered rackets at the U.S. Open, we meandered to the park for dinner with Elvis. Yes, Mr. Presley was in the park, bejeweled and bejangled, and informed us that he has been moonlighting as a high school teacher at Moorpark High all these years. Well, blessa my soul. Betcha didn’t know.

My husband had paid a visit to the park earlier in the day. Thoughtfully and artfully, he managed to plant our territory in no man’s land so we could neither avoid the sun nor see the stage. Well, my skin already looks like beef jerky, and, hey, I can’t see anything from a distance anyway, so really, I had nothing to complain about. I thought Elvis looked remarkably feisty and has been holding up pretty well over the years. No worse for wear or the incarnation process. He accused us of being “Nothing but a Hound Dog” and asked the inevitable question, “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”

I wasn’t lonesome since our picnic for two had exploded into one for eight and Labor Day became craziness packing appetizers, pasta salad, fruit, fresh brownies and adult beverages in a basket the size of Florida. No problem. Because Elvis could really belt a tune. I mean the guy could really sing. Made me want a pair of blue suede shoes and to enroll in this guy’s class.

From “Heartbreak Hotel” to “Don’t Be Cruel,” we rocked and rolled and remembered old tunes, and savored the last official moments of summer.

Before I knew it, I was back in the saddle again, returning billions and billions of e-mails and vaulting into meetings where 15 people shared opinions on one subject in order to find 15 different ways to screw it up.

On a safari in Kenya, years ago, a Masai guide pointed to the peculiar-looking wildebeest and said, in a very heavy Swahili accent, “In Africa, we say the wildebeest is designed by committee.”

Oh, goodbye, summer. Back to the wildebeests. I guess it’s “Now or Never.” I will miss you.

You can write to Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com