I have to fight the urge to write about how I’ve been working a lot, about being sick, about the daily grind. It’s boring and yet I always want to ramble on about it. But what’s the point? I will share a photo though. I spoke at an awards ceremony for my organization and had a really nice evening, even getting compliments for my public speaking. Plus everyone got to see me dressed up, which was fun. Actually several of my own co-workers did not recognize me at first. Apparently I look completely different at work, where I regularly dress for the warehouse environment–jeans, moccasins, glasses, little makeup.
There were a few days this week where the temperature felt cool for August. There was this tiny, almost imperceptible, hint of fall in the air, which I part relish and part dread. Although I enjoy milder temperatures, they remind me too much of the possibility of cold. I’m in a better place now than I was at this time last year, so I think I’ll adapt to the seasonal change better. When life isn’t going so well, the fall and winter months only intensify sadness. If you’re happy (!), it can be a charming time. But while I’m aesthetically drawn to the cooler seasons, all the scarves and boots and festive music and hot chocolate and quaintness in the world can’t match the ease of summer.
I have always felt that summer is the true present. Every Thanksgiving, every Christmas, feels dated; I’ve very aware that I’m living in the past. Posing for pictures that might as well already be pasted on the yellowed pages of a dusty photo album. Christmas 2012. The holidays are nice, but they’re so fleeting and they draw so much attention to themselves. And then there are those cold early months of the year, spent waiting. Waiting for summer, when life just is. That’s why I love July. It is pure summer. In June you still remember spring. In August you start to anticipate autumn. I’d happily take eleven months of July and one month of December.