Meanwhile, fall happened in New England today.
I don’t have a precise time for when the switchover occurred. I was outside around ten thirty, maybe eleven in the morning, and it was summer. Birds singing, sun beating down, seventy-plus degrees of ambient coziness feeling mighty good on the bare knees and arms.
Then I worked for a few hours, stepped back outside around seven thirty, and — holy mother of parka-packing pachyderms, it’s effing autumn. Low fifties. Rain and wind. Shorts that are no longer working with the weather, but against it. And getting shorter with each passing step, because my body is trying to suck them up inside me.
On the one hand, it was quite shocking. I never envisioned, when I showered and dressed this morning, that I might be needing elbow grease and a large set of tongs to take my pants off tonight. Yet, here we are. And now someday when I have my first colonoscopy, my doctor will wonder why the hell there’s a “LEVI’S” imprint somewhere up the rabbit hole. This is not a conversation I want to have. There are no good answers to that question. None.
“March in Boston — or September, for that matter — doesn’t “come in like a lion, and go out like a lamb”. It comes in like fricking Godzilla, and by the time it goes out, it’s grown poison fangs and strapped a giant bazooka to its ass.
Obviously, I blame fall.
And on the other hand, it’s really not all that surprising. This is just how the seasons go around here. There are no gentle transitions, no easing into the shortening days or sliding lazily from winter to spring. No. Around here, the seasons play a wicked game of King of the Hill, apparently trying to knock the incumbent off the calendar in the most violent way possible.
March in Boston — or September, for that matter — doesn’t “come in like a lion, and go out like a lamb”. It comes in like fricking Godzilla, and by the time it goes out, it’s grown poison fangs and strapped a giant bazooka to its ass. All the months are like that. The entire calendar will beat you like you owe it money, and then hold you down so the next one can pound on you for a while.
And just about every season, I get shafted in transition. I miss a memo, lose track of days, or forget to check the Weather Channel Forecast-O-Tron, and get caught in the middle of the interseasonal cross-fire. Either I’m underdressed and freezing my thighs off like tonight, or I’m wrapped up in a parka for the start of a heat wave. Neither is pretty, nor pleasant to endure. But that’s seasonal change in Boston. Blink, and you’ll miss it.
Also, you may need a pair of tongs.Permalink | No Comments