Indian Summer, It’s Time to Go Home

That’s it:  Indian Summer – you sweaty, late party guest – it’s time to go home.  We don’t want to play anymore.

Oh my word.  Did she just say that?  Isn’t that total sacrilege?

This is California, after all!  We are supposed to love summer!  Even into the late months.  We are all supposed to be suntanned beauties in cutoff shorts riding Jeeps on the beach.  At least, according to Snoop Dogg.

But there is a resistance, dear friends.  There is an underground swell of anti-hot-weather ladies, who all have their own reasons for loathing the ninety+ degree afternoons, and resenting their prolonged drag into September.

A dear mommy friend who is also a beautiful writer, confided that she was glad that summer was coming to an end soon.  Scratch that: she wished that summer would go ahead and finish up already.  To her, summer’s to-do list is just as smothering as the heat.  She writes with such poetry about her suffering under the oppresion of the summertime “should’s.”  Seriously girls, check her out here at her post entitled Slowness.

Another friend agreed, saying that she always loathed summer since childhood, because it ravaged her health problems.  It doesn’t help that she is as fair-skinned and red-headed as an Irish queen.

Me?  I’ve got my own set of pregnancy reasons.   I’m running about 125 degrees above normal these days, as my circulatory system supports two.  So, unless my hair is dripping wet, or I’m strapping a jumbo ice pack to my chest in an Moby wrap, I’m panting like a dog.  Which, come to think of it, is a pretty fair description.  Since dogs don’t really sweat. And for some weird reason, I don’t sweat much either.  What’s my deal?  Who knows.  But when the temp rises, I get all swoony and light-headed like I’m in a Victorian novel.

*le sigh…*

I am most definitely a cold weather girl.  Scratch that: I am, at heart, a COASTAL weather girl.  And not the tropical beachy scene you’re imagining right now.  But the foggy, blustery, splashy, rocky coastline kind of scene where you would expect fishermen to pull their woolen collars higher around their necks and light a fresh pinch in their pipes.  That’s the weather in which I come alive.  There is a thrill in wet air that bites your nose as you go walking in it.  A challenge to the spark of life within.  Not, like, a dual to the death kind of challenge.  That’s bone-chilling, ten-foot-snowdrift, sub-zero arctic weather business.  That nonsense will kill ya.  It’s more of a friendly ribbing from an old friend who knows how to tease you just enough to get your hackles up.  Yes, this is my most favorite kind of weather.

Its damper usually settles out the heat by October, but I can happily cheat and visit the ocean for this reliable experience any time I have an extra half-tank of gas and an afternoon to travel.  Hey, people do this all the time, right?  Just, you know, the opposite.  Like, the elderly with respiratory problems in New England are called “snow birds,” because they fly south for the winter to their condos in Florida.  The weather down south makes them feel better.  In the same vein, I go west every now and again when the stifling heat shrivels my will to live.

And as a pregnant lady, I can’t even fit into any form of cutoff shorts.  Nor would anyone want to see that.  So, until I can find a switch in the sky to change out the weather, I will hug the AC in my house, and when I have the oomph, go to the ocean to feel the misty breeze on my face.  I’ll enjoy summer next year.  Promise.  Currently, I’m busy.  Super busy, as I sit here, with my feet up, panting like a dog.  I’m building a human, cell by cell – which makes a Mama tired, and cranky, prone to complaining, and feeling very, very hot.

 

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Steph Lenox thinks women need tools to build the unique lives God designed them to live. She suspects there is a way to feel better - a deep peace, and an abiding love - that is both a gift from the Lord, and a skill to cultivate and share. To this end, she loves sharing her emotional tool box with moms in these intense little years.

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