Leaves on the trees have started to turn and the sun is lower in the sky at midday, casting a creepy sundowning glow in the early afternoon. I’d like to say I have a love-hate relationship with this time of year, but it’s mostly hate.
The bright side? For a week or two, I won’t have to turn on the furnace or the air-conditioner.
That’s about it, really. I despise the dark and the cold. I don’t even really like the magnificent colors of autumn. I’d rather be surrounded by the lush humid green of July and August than the sparse goldens and reds that are the harbingers of the the perpetual uncomfortableness of winter.
Only four games are left in baseball’s regular season and next year’s reporting date for pitchers and catchers has yet to be determined.
Sigh.
September is almost over, yet I’m still wearing my flip-flops, hoping against hope that global warming will somehow turn Chicago into Los Angeles (albeit with a much better skyline and fewer earthquakes) and I will never have to shovel snow off of my driveway again.
Wishful thinking.
And also selfish thinking. Global warming of that magnitude would only benefit my little corner of the world, so I’m retracting that wish just in case there’s a magic genie reading my blog.
However, in the off-chance that such a genie is listening, I’d like to put in a request for some intestinal fortitude to appear on my doorstep in the form of cases of red wine.
It's almost October and only four games remain, but my team is guaranteed post-season play so I have that one shred of summer left and I’m clinging to every last frayed remnant with one hand and strangling the neck of a wine bottle with my other.
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