In this frigid little corner of the earth, the seasons change pretty damn fast.
So fast, that we’ve nearly done away with Spring and Fall. We’re direct, no-nonsense folks. Fall and Spring are for ditherers and gaddabouts.
If you’re not really, really paying attention here, you could, conceivably, miss Fall.
The signs are there, but they’re not always reliable.
Back to School didn’t mean much when the kids were sweating their way through 32 degree celsius/90 degree farenheit weather.
In the Age of Central Air, casseroles and roasts are no longer the exclusive province of the Autumn chef.
Sports and lessons, which used to be a reliable demarcation line between Summer and Fall, now go year-round.
Even the high holy month known as Season Premiere Month on TV is now virtually meaningless. TV seasons start whenever the hell they feel like it, and I can watch new episodes of something every month of the year.
So, to try to make sense of it all, to wrap my head around these crazy times I’m living in, I did what I always do. Laundry.
And that’s where I stumbled across the perfect way to tell that Fall has, indeed, arrived.
The Ridiculous Load.
That one load of laundry that contains elements so unsuitable, you can’t believe you ever needed them. A load of laundry filled with shorts, and linen capris, and bathing suits and tank tops, all still redolent with the cloying odor of sunscreen. And as you’re folding these treasures, you look outside, where the leaves have forsaken the trees, and the sky is a particularly pregnant shade of gray, that could deliver snow at any minute.
You look down at the tank top.
And you know it’s Fall.
* OK, so that totally could be the name of a failed pornographic film, hell, it could be an actual, un-failed pornographic film, that’s just not what I was talking about in this case, and if it really were a pornographic film, I think it would be kind of artsy, don’t you?