A Month of Sun Days

The calendar on the wall in my kitchen tells me it's still August. The boots in my closet remain lined up neatly, and flip flops still lie strewn across the floor. It's eighty degrees outside, has been for the last five days. Maybe yesterday's bump on the head was more serious than I had thought. I could have sworn autumn had already arrived.

School has been back in session for over a month. When I gaze out the window, all evidence suggests that it is indeed October. The trees are a collage of vibrant colors, the sidewalks are littered with the ones that couldn't hang on, brown and curled and crisp. Even at my age, I still get a kick out of stomping through the piles -- nature's bubble wrap.

Pumpkins are everywhere. Not just the plump ones blocking the entrance to every grocery store, waiting to be cut into jack-o-lanterns. Bakery displays are lined with pumpkin delicacies, Starbucks is pushing pumpkin spice lattes, there's even pumpkin ice cream (for those of us who still seem to have one foot in summer, one foot in fall, I suppose).

Yes, it's definitely autumn (wall calendar notwithstanding; I'm just particularly fond of the August picture -- a dog doing a handstand), so why is it so warm outside? Don't get me wrong -- I'm not complaining. Well, maybe I am, just a little. As much as I love having the top down on my convertible for a little while longer, I am, frankly, done with shorts and flip flops. I have a three month attention span for those items, and am more than ready for boots and sweaters and jackets. It's confusing, crunching through dead leaves with bare toes.

At least I'm fairly confident I'm not confused; it's just mother nature playing games with my head. Actually, I think yesterday's head bump gave me clarity. It happened while I was bending down to get laundry out of the hamper; bang, I smashed my head into the corner of the dresser. (Yes, the dresser has always been there, but the hamper had moved.) The mishap reaffirmed what I have known for quite some time: household chores are bad for my health. Years ago, I broke my foot taking out the garbage. I've shattered more than a few light bulbs while hanging precariously on a ladder trying to change them. What can I say? When you're born into Brooklyn royalty, your blood screams for a household staff.

I'm still waiting for the staff, but, in the mean time, to protect myself from further harm, I'm going on strike. So what if the dishes pile up in the sink? Why risk chipping my manicure? And definitely no more laundry. I have enough holes in my head.