There’s a part of me that finds nice weather in late November… a touch unsettling. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a sucker for 55 with a light breeze, sun maybe partially obscured behind some wispy cotton balls but like it feels wrong. Doesn’t it? There’s something unnerving about sitting in my science hall, talking about climate change and a warming globe, then walking outside to find it a crisp 65 in the middle of the month that usually ushers in the snow. I don’t know if maybe that’s my anxiety not letting me enjoy a nice thing, or maybe it’s my fear of spring showing because I prefer when things die rather than when they bloom. This weather gives me a nice afternoon, but when it’s dark at 4:30 what use have I for day straight outta’ late September?
I don’t remember why I thought to write this. Truth is, I love a good cool autumn day. And it is, indeed, still autumn. But I guess that’s how the wind blows through my semester-emptied skull – looking to the dystopian future instead of enjoying what will be the idealists’ past.
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