Apparently, it is now December. I am not at all convinced.
I didn’t grow up in a particularly wintry place, but there was always enough of a cold snap to freeze the top few inches in the water troughs and to worry the whole valley about frozen citrus crops. I didn’t have to live with the daily hassle of snow, but could easily find some within an hour whenever the urge hit. It appears that even that moderate amount of winter was enough to tie me to the time and weather patterns of the global north. My brain seems to be completely unable to process December near the equator.
This week’s forecast for Monrovia is in the high 80’s with occasional thunderstorms. I wear skirts and short dresses nearly every day, socks only when I go running. My cute little corduroy jacket and comfy hoodie haven’t made it out of the closet in two months. I’m basically living in eternal summer. Don’t get me wrong: I quite like this arrangement, and would happily abandon socks for the rest of my life if I could only find the right running shoes.
It does, however, confound my sense of the calendar. I had a nice Thanksgiving dinner last week that didn’t feel the least bit like Thanksgiving. The nice part is that, since it doesn’t seem like the holidays, I don’t really feel like I’m missing them at home with friends and family. The less than stellar part is that it doesn’t really feel like time is passing. Though there are lots of points when that sort of Tuck Everlasting sense would be fantastic, it isn’t that comforting when I already feel like life is stuck in neutral.
I guess the not-so-profound conclusion I’m reaching is that seasons matter for more than crops and clothiers. They are useful reminders of the march of time and the progress of life. Now I just need to get used to the idea of rainy and dry as seasons on par with winter and fall.
And if I miss your birthday, please don’t take it personally. It’s probably just because I think it’s still August.