I need my seasons to stay in proper working order. This whole blending of seasons and cross-wind crap is not working for me. I need all four seasons, distinct, beautiful, and finite. Its why, despite - and over the loud objections of - my caribbean genetics, I live in Chicago. Four seasons. This year, however, the balm in the air will not cooperate. Late to arrive at the party, and late to leave, the summer air is wreaking havoc with my clock. My whole wardrobe selection process is suffering from dyslexia. I can't wear turquoise during this part of the year because, even though 81 degrees calls for the turquoise linen capris, September is a 'brown' month. Turquoise is August. But all my brown clothes are too warm for 81 degrees. Health care shmealth care, I can't get dressed for Pete's sake!
My meal-time choices are equally distressed. I'd like to start the grill, but not for hot dogs and corn-on-the-cob. No. It should be time for thick burgers or steaks. September is a hearty-meal-on-the-grill month, not a picnic-food month.
So, despite the pleasure with which my skin soaks in the delicious warm humid air, I have a very serious problem: I'm naked and I'm hungry. And it gets worse from there.
Not only do I have my clothes seasonally sorted and my menus mentally cataloged for seasonal rotation of meats, fruits and veggies, but I have my house decor boxed for the seasons and holidays (halloween/thanksgiving for fall, christmas for winter, easter for spring, and 4th of july for summer). Each of these categories requires approximately three months to run its course. After that, I'm all out. I need to shift to the next season or I start maniacally repeating stuff in random order. Watermelon and winter squash for dinner! AAAAAH. I can't do it! What's more? It's disrupting the harmony among inatimates inside my home. You know that fall wreath is just whimpering away in that storage box, waiting for her turn to be pulled out, dusted off and given the place of honor on our front door. And that pink and green number I have out there now is so smug - practically purring with pleasure as she reigns over the front landscape. She knows she's getting extra time and she's loving every minute of it. Its not fair, I tell you. And I dread what will happen when those two cross paths in the transfer from storage to placement. It's not going to be pretty.
Now, I'm willing to negotiate. I'm not advocating for sleet and hail. Just a little weather shift in the seasonally appropriate direction. Make it low 70s during the day and low 60s at night. I'm fine with that. I can wear jeans, serve pot roast, have orange flowers in the dining room and it all works. As it stands, I'm fretting in front of my closet each morning with the brown shoe-boots pining away on a too-high-to-reach-for-every-day shelf, waiting to be called to work. They're depressed, I can tell. But the high today is going to be 78 and I'm wearing open-toes. Maybe next week.