I knew summer was over before it was over, kind of like how I knew that college boyfriend relationship was over before the end of first term, but with more dread and less drama. Good things come to an end to make way for better things.
I wasn’t happy about it (the end of summer, not the college beau. He was cute and all, but he’d never read F. Scott Fitzgerald or Robertson Davies, so our brief love affair was doomed. I had standards). I was unhappy about the end of summer because I was on vacation at the lake. I was hoping for warm sun, soft breezes and cool nights. I packed for this reality, doing everything I believed reasonably responsible to manifest a lovely end to the season. I am superstitious, you know, even when it comes to packing. If you pack the rain gear, you’ll get rain. A toque? You’ll need it. So pack sandals, shorts and a hoodie and hope for the best. Layers, yes. Fall attire? No. Not happening.
Only it did happen. Summer ended abruptly in that physical and emotional way that makes it far more abrupt than a date on a calendar that declares one season officially over and another beginning. Summer ends for me the day I have to wear socks for warmth. Socks. Ugh.
Within two days of my lakeside vacation, I had to drive into the nearby town to buy an extra blanket, flannel joggers and, ugh, socks. Fluffy socks. Ridiculous, not-evenmy-colour, unbearably soft socks. November socks. February socks, even. Not August socks, because August socks are only supposed to be work socks for garden shoes or hiking boots. Otherwise, no socks. Period.
Yet, I slipped my recently pedicured, sandal-loving feet into these fluffy white socks, with black snowflake patterns across the top, because it wasn’t bad enough I needed socks as a necessity over fashion, but they had to remind me of winter with snowflakes. Cute? I mean, yes, but no. In December, I would love these socks. I’d think they were adorable. But it’s not December. And just like that, summer was officially over for me.
I couldn’t let myself stay in this state of defeat, though. I’m an optimistic pessimist, but I’m no quitter. It was a vacation, for goodness sake. My socks could still walk with me to the lake, in my layers of clothes, including my new plaid flannel joggers, my hoodie with the hood up making a nice point on my head, socks on, relaxing warmly with a good book in a Muskoka chair. Sure, I’m not a fan of socks and sandals, but vacation means allowances for such faux pas. Nobody knew me there.
It struck me, as I sat lakeside looking like a drunk garden gnome reading a great Canadian novel, that this is what happens when I leave vacation until the unofficial final week of summer – and that there is something to be grateful for in that too.
So as we moved into that last long weekend and the calendar flipped from August to September, I put my socked feet up and thought of all the good things to come, like pumpkin muffins, pumpkin loaf, pumpkin pie, also pumpkins in general.
I like my September fashions like a good story plot: layered.
Sock up. Fall is here.
Meet you in the pumpkin patch.
