Baby Don’t Go

A strange phenomenon occurs when the summer is just about to depart. Like an expectant mother who, although weighted and unwieldy, suddenly throws herself into frenetic nesting, I try to fit in every last bit of the season despite the obvious shortening days and slanting shadows.  Right now, I am pool swimming each night after work, eating ice cream cones every chance I get, patio lounging with potentially ruinous abandon, and chasing the scent of lobster rolls to every shack and hole-in-the-wall around. Next weekend will be my last under-the-stars outdoor theater night until next summer.  I don’t even want to talk about fall.

Maybe it was because this year’s winter was so cold and cruel and I’m not anxious for a repeat.  Or maybe it’s because this New England summer has been so lovely.  Or perhaps it’s because I no longer have such a soul-crushing job and therefore, have the time to, well…smell the roses.  And the lemon-scented geraniums.  And the tomatoes…and fried clams…

But that doesn’t explain this activity of mine at the end of every summer.  There is just something about the feeling that one is going to have to say goodbye soon that really makes me want to savor every last drop…of peach iced tea, that is.  Like the couple that visits New York City just before they are to be parted…running about experiencing everything “New York” just in the nick of time.  Making memories to sustain them until they meet again.

I can’t imagine what it will be like when I don’t reach for my favorite khaki shorts and sleeveless t-shirts anymore.  There is something so magical about a light breeze tickling the hair on one’s bare arms.  This is the real fashion ease that we style editors are always extolling.  I dread thinking about layers and frozen toes and flannel nightgowns.  And yet, I feel the vibrations of those days – those sweater days – just over the pink and gold sunset.

Oh I’m sure they will arrive.  And once they do, I will adapt and even embrace them.  But for now…for today…you can find me lollygagging at dusk on a chaise in my backyard, or sitting at the town dock, ice cream dripping down my naked arm.