We will never have world peace.
How do I know? Because no two humans can agree on the weather or where the thermostat should stay.
As I sat perspiring this weekend, my usually warm husband wandered in and remarked, “I can feel fall in the air.”
Indian Summer, maybe. Fall? I call it wishful thinking. I can’t agree while it is still so sticky.
It’s not fall until I can wear a sweater at noon. Maybe it’s because I don’t have any cute fall clothes I am dying to wear, but I am letting summer fade slowly this year. Still subject to the echoes of my upbringing, you probably won’t see me in shorts this month and I have busted out some closed shoes. But I am not packing away my sandals or sleeveless stuff until the sweat factor ebbs considerably.
I can hear everyone in Southern California under 50 just howling at the fact that I even think in terms of winter and summer clothes. But having specific clothes you wore for specific seasons was carved in stone as I grew up.
It may have just been a remnant of the caste system that America works hard to be rid of. But it was also a wonderful excuse to go out and buy new clothes, even when the temperature only shifts about 20 degrees.
Somewhere fashion mavens still cling to certain standards, but in these parts the old rules have been summarily tossed. I marvel that men still wear ties. Most folks around here just dress comfortably, fashion be darned. And while my upbringing bridles, it makes perfect sense.
Truth be told, I slip regularly over to the comfort side.
I will never again suffer new-shoe blisters and pinched toes. I remember when I changed my nail polish weekly, wore pantyhose in 80-degree heat and retired my tennies in September.
Those days are gone forever and at the risk of angering my mother’s spirit, I doubt they’ll be back.
Rest easy, mom. I still can’t bring myself to wear white after Labor Day.
Jean Gillette is a freelance writer savoring the last days of summer. Contact her at jgillettecoastnewsgroup.com
