I know, I’m a bit late saying au revoir to my favorite season. I just didn’t want to let it go. But then I woke up early this morning because I had become something of a human popsicle. Turns out I set the heat last night but didn’t actually turn it on. It was horrible. As I shivered my way the ten miserable steps from the bed to the thermostat I began to remember what every morning of my life in winter is like, and the grieving for summer’s end officially began.
Summer is my refuge. No, I’m not a teacher, I’m just perpetually cold. I’m that girl who needs a sweater in 75 degree weather and never turns on the air conditioning. Yes, I’ve had my thyroid and my iron checked, in case you were on the verge of being the latest in a never-ending line of people who think they’re suggesting something I haven’t thought of. This is just me. So when the weather outside is a steady 80+, it’s a relief inexplicable to those whose internal thermometer is normal.
But then Pumpkin Spice coffee shows up. And Halloween stores open. I ignore it as long as I can, not wanting to face the reality that the glorious feeling of warmth I am able to enjoy 3 months out of the year is once again about to evade me for 9 more.
I really don’t dislike Autumn. I don’t mind sweaters and jackets during the day. The leaves changing color really are one of God’s most glorious displays of splendor, and I happen to love Pumpkin Spice anything. But chilly Autumn nights are an ominous reminder that the earth’s orbit is about to move my particular spot on the globe just a bit further away from the sun, which in turn translates to major temperature crashes.
As if the plummeting temperatures weren’t bad enough, the days have also grown shorter. In peak summer, the sun shines until almost 8 pm. Tonight, sunset is at 6:04. And the dreaded nail in summer’s coffin – Daylight Savings Time – is still a week away.
Short cold days and long frigid nights are upon us. No wonder the squirrels are in hyper-drive. I’m kind of jealous of them, actually. I would love to hoard up some food and lock myself in my apartment until April with no plans except eating and napping. Alas, my status as a homo sapien requires me to throw off the warm covers every morning and venture out into the world, no matter what inhumane conditions might exist outside my front door.
Social media has been perpetuating the hysterical “it’s supposed to be another really bad winter” articles for a few months already. I don’t give them any credence. Since when is the weather report accurate 3 days in advance, let alone 3 months? Still, I have to admit, even though I don’t believe they are accurate I still have a dreadful fear that they might be. There was a time near the end of last year’s horrific winter – I think it was about the 17th snowstorm, or maybe it was the 23rd – where I actually started job and apartment hunting online for a nice new life in southern Florida. Of course, that may have been spurred on by my brother’s Facebook posts of he and his girlfriend boating off the beautiful Gulf Coast in shorts and tank tops under sunny skies.
They’ve lived in Florida for a few years now, and every now and then I hear something about “missing the seasons”. When I posted pictures of snow and sadness and offered to trade places, they never took me up on it for some strange reason. And I don’t think they got the humor when I posted these:
So basically, this is how the seasons translate to me:
Autumn is the alarm clock going off. As much as I don’t want to, I know I have to drag myself out of bed and get ready for work. If I’m lucky there is time for breakfast and coffee, but usually it’s a race against the clock just to get out the door on time. Winter is the long, miserable, dreary work day in an office where the thermostat is set to frigid and I left my sweater at home. The fluorescent light above my desk is burnt out, and every time I look at the clock it’s at least 2 hours earlier than it feels. Spring is the drive home. Traffic is annoying and the ride always seems so much longer than it actually is, but at least the office is behind me. Summer is walking in the front door, kicking off my heels, and trading the pantyhose for yoga pants, then enjoying a nice dinner and an hour or two with Netflix.
I miss you already summer, and I’m dreaming of the day we are reunited.
(Betcha were expecting an extended cliche on the seasons of life. Perhaps in May, when hope has returned…)
In the Little Things 