Last week we were sweating our double chins off, and suddenly we're in the middle of fall. There are pumpkin vendors where the zucchini sellers were a few days ago, the Dollar Store is putting up Christmas decorations, and just yesterday I saw someone putting up cornstalks, THEE classic sign of autumn, at the local Baptist church.
With those kinds of symbols and portents abounding, can frost be far behind?
Well, yes, it can, but let's not go there. Allow me a moment of hope, if you would, that this long hot beesturd of a summer is finally over, and the most glorious time of year, SWEATER WEATHER, might at last be taking root in the Piedmont. Oh, to break out the hoodies and boots, to wait for the one perfect day to go take a hike in the woods and kick up crisp leaves, to bonfire (it is TOO a verb!) in the backyard and toast hobo pies and marshmallows under a clear black sky.
I love fall. Every year it's an anxious wait for its arrival. Every year since moving to the FURNACE that is NC it seems to take longer and longer to arrive. Every year, when it does, it's like a switch gets flipped on inside me and I can think more clearly, become more alert, begin a season of productivity that the Southern summer won't allow due to reasons of insane hotness.
Perhaps it's because I grew up in NY, where fall starts around the time school does, lasts just a few pristine weeks, then gives way to a 6-month winter that the onset of cool weather signals 'hurry up and prepare to be bunkered in!' Time to get the harvest in the storehouse, time to enjoy the last of the good weather, time to make the most of the sun while it's still around.(This feeling only applies to humans though, as the cats and dog seem unfazed by the change in the air. Their intensive nap schedule cannot change, as getting the required 22.5 hours of sleep a day is critical for their continued wellbeing.)
Boy it'd sure be nice if I could still wear corduroys without risking setting my thighs on fire. Cords just scream Fall, don't you think?. I once had a pair the color of an eggplant. They were not only purple, but also high-waisted (at least as high as the young lady in the photo there waving hello at you, and you) and PLEATED (this was the '80s, lots of things happened that probably shouldn't have). I loved those dang pants. This being the '80's it just might have been that I wore them with multiple polo shirts UNDER a long-sleeved button-down Oxford, because that is how I rolled back in the day. Oh! And I most likely wore a skinny belt too! And way too much makeup! And some kind of loafer, Docksiders perhaps, that were likely very unflattering and stumpified the look, but I'm a tall girl and didn't need to accentuate that overly much.
(<---totally stylin, 1983 Numismatic Association of America grad seminar style!)Yeah, those pants were awesome. Almost as awesome as my candy-apple red chinos. Size 8. One of my proudest moments ever, and one that will never be repeated, for I starved myself for those damn pants. Had cheekbones that could cut glass and hipbones that bruised my boyfriend, but I got into those pants and sashayed my ass around campus, workin' it like it was my job. Those pants and a nice Shetland Sweater (under which I probably wore too many polo shirts and a button-down Oxford) and the omnipresent Docksiders were the perfect fall outfit, when I wasn't in the eggplant pants, that is.
Sigh.
Now? The perfect fall outfit is something along the lines of elastic-waist pants and an oversized hoodie, under which I wear hardly anything at all (fat is a wonderful insulator!) and below which I'm likely wearing knock-off vans or Chucks, but the feeling of fall is the same. Luxurious chill, alertness, a sense of preparedness and exuberance. I guess I can't explain it, but I'm grateful for its seeming arrival here nonetheless.
Because THIS summer? Was, truly, a b*stard of epic proportion.
Please, let it be over. This time, for real.
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Am I right about fall being the most wonderful time of the year, or what? Please feel free to ring in on this most pressing of issues, or to confess what your most questionable favorite outfits of all time have been. We won't mock you, much.
Tiff out.
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