I knew it was coming. It’s an inescapable part of life, this changing of the seasons. Heck, I look forward to the transition of winter to spring with all the giddy anticipation of a schoolgirl. Spring into summer, as well.
But it’s hard to surrender the glory of summer to the chilly gloom of autumn. I resist it for as long as humanly possible by refusing to trade my shorts for long pants. I can hold out when temperatures drop into the 60s, even the 50s, but I cave to the miserable, rotten, low down 40 degree days. Especially when the sun has skipped away and gone elsewhere.
That tragic day arrived Sunday. Oh, leaves still cling to the trees and snow isn’t falling, but it will. And soon. So I dragged the long pants from the closet and cried into them for long minutes before I could bring myself to put them on. I did, eventually — I’m wearing a pair now — and I’ve hated every flipping minute of their warm, restrictive protection.
Thus begins the long, painful wait for the happy exuberance of summer to return. In the meantime, I’ve resorted to my annual hibernation, hiding here inside my stoopid pants and long sleeves. If you need anything, you all know where to find me.
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