Change of Seasons

It's happening to me once again.  I have no idea what day it is.  I am certainly confused about the season. 

I spent our first winter in Marin wearing hiking boots, woolen socks, corduroy shorts and a polar fleece vest over a long sleeved t-shirt or sweater.  My winter coat was a yellow, unlined, floor-length cotton duster which was only snapped up tight when I wanted to protect what was underneath from the raindrops.  It was never cold enough to warrant a scarf or a hat or gloves; when I wore them, it was a fashion statement rather than a concession to frigid temperatures.

A friend suggested that I choose colors for each season, and rotate my closet accordingly.  The weather was pretty much the same year round, once you crossed the Golden Gate Bridge.  Woolen sweaters were relegated to the storage closets there, as they are here.  Pale yellow is reserved for April through August; dark brown for November til Valentine's Day.

Or so it has been until this year. Our temperatures remain in the eighties during the day.  I'd like to wear a sleeveless tank top but it's November, for crying out loud.  I feel ridiculous.  Thanksgiving is Thursday... and I'm still not wearing a cover-up into the gym.  My short sweatshirts are glaring at me from their hangars; they're lonely and I, apparently, am to blame.

I love Fall clothes.  I love snuggling into a sweater that's going to insulate me and hug me and keep me warm.  Right now, putting on a sweater would be suicidal; every convertible in town is out with the top down today. It feels like the middle of summer on Long Island, right after a rainfall, when the air is clear and crisp and the humidity is only a faint memory.

I still haven't bought my turkey.  I haven't brought out the Thanksgiving napkins and pot holders and dish towels.  My rose bush is blooming again, its magnificence mocking the calendar.  Don't roses bloom in the spring? The small, migrating finches are nibbling on the crepe myrtle's seed pods, but there don't seem to be that many of them. 

Are they additional harbingers of global warming?  Is their home up north still toasty enough to entice them to stay?  The quail are fattening up, and I haven't seen many bunnies or ground squirrels, so the native beasties are still paying attention to the month and the season, it seems.  The coyotes are plump and not as noisy; the babies are growing to maturity and have learned to control themselves.  The sunsets are the bright oranges of the nearing solstice, and I remember that the shortest day of the year is but six or so weeks away.

So, why am I wearing shorts?