It is with some distress that I report to you that I was forced to pull out the fuzzy loungewear the other day.
You know the stuff: the cuddly warm material that looks really crappy after about a dozen washings?
Helpful Hint from Pearl: If you don’t spill anything on them, and you don’t wear them whilst doing any actual work, you won’t have to wash those things for years.
But there I was, wasn’t I? The temperature was dippin’, my joy at having discovered the bin where I’d hidden my winter clothes was slippin’, and suddenly, I was overcome.
Six months. Six months of layered clothing, of an increasing desire that all foodstuffs be covered with gravy, six months of dreadfully poor beach weather.
I had to sit down.
What’s that? Oh, I hear ya. Having been here in the Great State of Minnesota for now, what, two, maybe three hundred years, you’d think I’d have picked up and moved by now.
But seriously. If I did, what would I complain about?
And believe me, there will be complaining. There are, after all, leaves to rake and driveways to shovel. There are windows to scrape and sidewalks to “sand”.
There are parties with food and drink and a hundred boots at the door. There are laughingly bitter walks to pubs, pies to bake and kitchen to heat afterward with the oven’s open door.
There are cashmere sweaters and friends that hold your hands to warm you.
There are hot baths to take and plumped-up, winter-ready kitties to lie on your head, purring in the dark.
The seasons are changing, people. And it’s not bad.
It’s just different.