I went to the gym very, very early one morning this week – so early it wasn’t open yet and there was a line of people waiting at the door to get in. One would think this would be a sign to the YMCA – open the damn doors early for these people. It’s not like we WANT to be standing in the cold, damp, dark waiting to get in to workout. We have to do this. We need to do this. And we are here now because have to get to other places as soon as possible. The lack of genuine, caring customer service at the Santa Barbara YMCA is atrocious for a whole bunch of reasons, but we’ll go into that another time perhaps as I’ve digressed.
While standing in line … in the dark and the cold and the damp … I overheard two women chatting behind me. The conversation went like this: “I don’t think the weather has broken yet really, do you? October is known for being a little hot after all, but of course we really can’t complain. The weather here is so perfect after all. No snow, no ice – it’s perfect.”
Huh, I thought. If it’s so perfect, then why don’t you have seasons?
I lived for some years in Texas where there were two seasons: Brutal Summer and February. That was pretty much it. So, when I moved to Colorado and I finally had a bona-fide fall again – leaves on the ground to crunch under my feet, that first snappy crispness to the air, that delicious smell of the first wood fires in homes (not OF homes, inside fireplaces!), I loved it. I looked forward to it every year. Fall is my favorite season of all. It always seems so hopeful to me somehow.
Now, I live in Santa Barbara, California where the weather is always the same. Sure, it hasn’t gotten overpoweringly and oppressively hot – just an afternoon here and there – so it’s hard to understand that we already had summer. Summer is over here, they tell me, and I wonder, “How do you know?” They say, “It’s very subtle.”
No fall for me anymore, and no winter either. *sniff*