It’s not that I’m anxious to be sweltering, arguing with the air-conditioner who wants to be turned on, but it feels odd for September to be November.
To sum it up…I’m fucking freezing.
I’ve always found comfort in the changing of seasons. The heat of July and August forming condensation in the crease of my arms and behind my knees.
The way my hair frizzes and flips in the back like a little kid’s, along with the smell of sunscreen commingling with humidity.
When autumn finally appears it usually knocks first rather than come busting through the front door.
Perhaps now people will see Global Warming is not just a rumor. Of course everyone’s thrilled it hasn’t been hot, but is the the Reader’s Digest version of a season really the way we want to go?
If nothing else, what about nature who has to be so confused…should I bloom, sprout, wilt or wither…store, save, hibernate or hide? You can practically hear the geese…we usually procreate months from now but boy, does that crisp though balmy air make me amorous…honk honk.
Rather than spring they’ll be giving birth in winter, and you know how that will go.
My life, on a personal level is changing at the speed of light, so I need a late summer like a buoy in the water to rely and rest upon.
I’m not ready to break out my layers…trade in my espadrilles for Uggs….jacket verses hoodie. I’m still in shorts and T-shirt mode and…who needs underwear on such a warm day. I’m pissed I hauled out my flannel PJs because last night my legs got cold longing to sleep naked by the open window. If I hadn’t put them on, I would have had to thaw, like a roast from the freezer.
I do hope Indian summer at least makes a cameo, so my hair will frizz and flip like old times, and I can be Lady Godiva for a little while longer.