I feel everyone is writing of fall. Crisp golden leaves swirling to the ground. Mugs filled to the brim with something hot, warming you all the way thru. Your favorite pair of socks possibly stolen from a beloved. Scarves, chunky knits and riding boots. Pumpkin spices weaving thru chilly breezes.
And I'm just not there.
It's near a hundred degrees outside and we're gearing up for a jaunt to the beach. I'm in cut off jean shorts grasping for those last dregs of summer.
It's near a hundred degrees outside and we're gearing up for a jaunt to the beach. I'm in cut off jean shorts grasping for those last dregs of summer.
Maybe in October. . .
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