It was chilly this morning. Like, I'm wearing pants and am happy about it kind of chilly. Yep. Pants.
I slept with the window open and woke up shivering under the lone blanket on my bed--the one that had been pushed and smushed down to the iron footboard all hot summer long.
Reader, it was glorious.
I'm a fall girl. A fall girl living in a summer world, that is. Back to school was always tricky. All of the cute clothes were meant for crisp, post-Labor Day mornings in New England not 98 degree days in west Texas. And these days I have to force myself to just say no to flip flops once the calendar says it's October.
But yesterday, October gave us a gift. Cloudy skies, non-sweltering temps, and a teeeeeeeny little cold front that makes pants-wearing a celebration today. It's fall! (For a few days. We'll have a few more rogue days in the nineties.)
I wanted to stay in bed all morning and read Keats' "To Autumn." To luxuriate in all of that cheerful abundance, the glut of sensation in those first two stanzas. I ignore the last stanza. Totally ignore it. I just focus on all of that oozing excess--and I always read that poem in Hugh Grant's naughty, naughty voice. (By the time I got around to graduate-level study of poetry, Bridget Jones's Diary had come around, and it's impossible extricate the two.)
So two cheers for chilly temps and an effusive hip-hip for floppy haired cads!