Today I have no worry in the world. My only stresser is this outfit. I should've gone with the rust brown cardigan instead of the heather grey. This hasty choice has me looking like I'm transitioning to spring, not fall. It's a nail biter, I know. I hope no one notices. I doubt anyone in my present company will. I'm surrounded by a lot of ladies who manage to incorporate bejeweled flip flops into their business casual repertoire. A couple of them wear matching earring and necklace sets-different ones every day. And this drives me bat shit because 1. I wonder how many of these sets one woman could possibly have, and 2. I wonder if they are stored in the Kohl's boxes they came in, in an underwear drawer, or if they are displayed together on a vanity like from a jewelry tree. And what would happen if one of them took a chance and wore the faux pearl and rhinestone earrings with the enamel daisy necklace? Would the pink, beachy themed hand-painted "It's 5 o'clock Somewhere" signs fall from every one of their office walls?!
But I'm not getting sucked into that negative line of thinking. It's a partly cloudy 75 degrees today which means every white girl's favorite things are about to happen. Scarves, boots, cuffing season, imaginary romantic walks in apple orchards, pumpkin spice everything. Actually I want no parts of that last bit--it's become obnoxious and overdone. Over saturated on a main stream media discovering transgenderism level. Though I will admit to having a pumpkin spice chai before bed twice this week. But I'm pretty sure that's redundant. And everyone in India wants to declare war on 'Merica right now--even the tourists.
Anyway, I am the most basic of all basic bitches and I don't even care, because this is my absolute favorite time of year. I'm already nesting. Things are getting baked and roasted and I'm about to make cream of anything I can get my hands on soup. I'm looking forward to red wine and black honey on my lips. And on my table linen. Body hugging turtlenecks. Smelling like fire. That there is a change in the wind, a slow purge, and an end. I'd rather leave the muck of the year behind and watch it die than nurture it into a budding new life six months from now. It's not fresh and new, it's browning and on its last leg. Just the way I like it.
And so it's that time of year again. To sink down into the wool and leather, breathe in the smoke and spice, let the pace slow to a crawl, watch the leaves change and die and fall. To look straight through the trees at the blank slate grey of the concrete. And let it go.
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