I heard you were back and, while I mean no offense to you whatsoever, I wasn't exactly tickled to hear about your return. Please don't take it personally, fall. I mean many, many people declare you their favorite season, so that should make you feel good. And I really do like you, I do.
I mean, what's not to like? The dip in temps, the flannels and denims, the smell of wood smoke wafting through the air, snuggly sweaters, football on the tv on lazy Sunday afternoons, big pots of soups and chili, pumpkin flavored everything, the changing leaves. I see the appeal and, eventually, I will come to embrace you.
I do every year. But it just takes me a bit.
Because, you see, you have the misfortune of coming after summer. And summer is, let's face it, a hard act to follow. The beach, the sun, fresh corn on the cob, shorts and skirts and sundresses, the pool, vacation, firecrackers and watermelon and peaches and popsicles, flip flops, white pants. Summer is, without a doubt, my favorite season.
And so it's truly nothing against you. It's just so, so hard to let summer go. But alas, Labor Day has come and gone and I am, reluctantly, resolving to be a good sport, which is why I'm writing this.
This is my letter of welcome, my missive of no hard feelings, my written resolution that I will make the best of the season I'm in. Even if it means I have to ease out of red, white and blue and into orange, yellow and brown. Even if it means the soundtrack changes from the shouts of happy children diving into water to the cheers of raving football fans. Even if it means that instead of eating homemade ice cream on the back porch we're eating big slices of pumpkin pound cake by a glowing fire.
Every year I eventually accept you, and even enjoy you. I grudgingly make the transition and by Halloween I am fully into the essence of this season after summer. Because I really do, deep down, like you. You do have a lot to offer. And starting this week, I'm going to focus on those things. (But I admit, I will still be counting down the days until summer comes back around.)
And if it's any consolation, I will not be writing a letter like this to Winter.
Yours Autumnally, Marybeth