I always say that spring is my favorite over fall, but that's probably a lie. Spring and I have a lot in common, certainly. Both of us always promising a lot of things that are beautiful and new but usually falling a little short and lapsing into rainstorms and unseasonable snowfalls, better in theory than in person, best in retrospect. I always find myself frustrated with spring when it gets here, and the fact that it hasn't ever quite managed to be what I wanted it to. Which is usually the same way I find myself with myself.
But fall always lives up to its reputation, hiding the sun in soft rains and cool layers of clouds, making home the coziest place to be and steamy bars more intimate and fun. Fall is when the real adventure happens, not during the trying-not-to-waste-them frantic days of summer.
And I have been falling it up, wearing coats and tights and waiting to use my clear umbrella, making gallons of soup and planning for pans of lasagna and nice warm casseroles. Developing quick crushes on fellows in sweaters, and spending nights on my couch with blankets and tea and Bogey. I have sitting at my little blue table in the dark, watching my city laid out before me and twinkling, and calling boys on the East coast too late so that I can read them Shel Silverstein poems over the phone by the light of the streetlamps. Preparing to do a whole lot of sewing, and high fiving with my mittens on, and talking much too fast.
We are about to have so much fun. Fall is twice as good as summer.
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