Friday, October 2, 2009

Another Reason to Hate on Iowa (the state not the football team...that's a whole nother thing)

The seasonal hand-off from summer to fall is my favorite time of year. There is something poetic about the changes in nature that occur introducing September to October. However, in is a brief introduction. By Halloween the trees will be bare, the night time temp will have likely hit freezing and we will all be wondering how long before a measurable snowfall.

Iowa's fall lasts about a month (give or take)...then it basically becomes winter with a few fall like days sporadically intermixed. Unless of course my romantic idea of fall has been replaced with cold, dreary days, followed by even worse nights...say it ain't so!

Pardon me while I vent:

The weatherman has tricked us, all but promising highs in the 50s and even 60s. As if we wouldn't know the difference between a pleasant fall fiftysomething degree day and the fortysomething degree prequel of Old Man Winter's breath blowing upon us. Did I mention I hate winter?

Today the sound of the alarm was paired with a stronger than usual urge to stay in bed, the result of a cold, rainy, infant fall morning. Following a couple of dates with the snooze button, I sat up and searched for my socks that I had removed sometime during the night. I braved the cool air of our older home as I made my way down to the kitchen. After burning my tongue on a scolding hot beverage, I headed back upstairs to start the shower and check in on the morning news. While catching up on the day's headlines, I turned on the shower allowing it to run until the bathroom showed appropriate signs of steam. After showering and getting ready, the highlight of which was the warmth of the hairdryer, I was ready to go and face the elements.

Before going outside, I perused the closet for a coat that offered the appropriate amount of coverage and protection. I choose fashion over function, paired with gloves. I could only find one. I quickly reconsidered, and stepped outside, bare handed. The cool wet air greeted my face as I walked toward the driveway. As I opened my car door, I could feel the cold mist that had settled on my tirelessly, blown-out hair. I got in the car, started the engine, rubbed my hands together as I blew hot air on them, cranked the heat and folded down the mirrored visor to get a look at the damage done. Post assessment, I pulled a hair fastener out of my purse, giving up on the hairdo that I wanted, settling for a ponytail. I flipped the visor back up, placed my foot on the brake pedal and shifted into reverse. Just as I was about to back out of the driveway, I glanced down at the ever-present temperature display on the dashboard, it read 44, reminding me that my weatherman is about as useless as that glove that I couldn't find.

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