Anyone could. Fall isn’t exactly sneaky. The clues are everywhere: it’s colder and darker and, oy, the damn leaf blowers never stop. (While we’re on the subject, why does every leaf blower sound like the Tilt-A-Whirl?)
Autumn comes tripping along about this time every year, like clockwork. You can set your calendar by it.* So, I’m curious, why do fall rituals come as such a jolt? They hit me like a train, wham. One, in particular, wallops me senseless.
I’m talking about the return to long pants. The first time I’m forced to dig out the pants is a cruel and chilling reminder of what lies ahead: win-n-n-n — . Sorry, wint-t-t. Win-n-n, w. I can’t say it. Nippy weather, how’s that?
Pants, my friends, are the final nail in summer’s coffin, the exclamation point. How can this not be a national day of mourning? Why are flags not at half-mast? Surely, this is a tragedy. Or maybe it’s more of a disaster. Where the heck is FEMA? Oh, right, the shutdown. Wait, no, shouldn’t this fall under essential government services, disaster relief?
This morning I faced an agonizing choice: I could either (a) freeze my nougats or (b) resort to long pants. I opted for (b) the pants. Oh, don’t give me that look; you’d have done the same thing. Frozen nougats are nothing to flirt with, trust me. Besides, I didn’t cave immediately, I dithered. I checked the current temperature (44º, a scant 12º short of freezing) and the forecast high (mid-60s). Then I caved.
Yep, hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s back to pants we go. Pants and, soon, big, puffy coats, dorky hats and layers of long johns, scarves and gloves and sweaters and wooly socks. Wint-t-t, win-n. Nippy weather is not pretty.
Please, shoot me now.
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*What is it with fall? Doesn’t it ever get lost or sidetracked or waylaid by mechanical failure? Does it never oversleep? That must be one helluva GPS / alarm clock gizmo.