Sweaters are sweaty.
Pumpkin spice burns your chapped, sunburnt lips.
The adorable pinterest-esque fall leaves are more often represented by crunchy, dehydrated grass.
Football games are too often stadiums crowded with sweaty bodies.
The weather is less “let’s wear infinity scarves and drink hot cocoa” and more “let’s crank up the A/C and never leave the house.”
Flannels and pies and hot fires seem much less appealing than I wish they would, and when the weather drops below 70 degrees we bundle up in varying layers of clothing, perhaps just for the sheer joy of fabric touching skin that doesn’t sweat upon contact.
Hot soup sounds unappetizing and I’d prefer an iced coffee, thanks.
So what, then, remains so magical about fall?
Why does my heart leap at the thought of the date, and why have I been waiting for this too-hot season for months on end?
Is it Halloween? Or thanksgiving? Or the fact that it is finally an appropriate time to share my Halloween costume plans? (Not like I’ve been waiting for months.)
Because it seems that no matter the temperature, fall will always feel like fall.