Seasonal Allergies

I don't mind it when my peas touch my corn, but I sure as heck take (ineffectual) umbrage when summer gets tangled up with September. It's supposed to be fall, dang it!  Or, if not fall, that sweet gasp immediately before fall, the moment midair when you know, though don't yet feel beyond a  prickling of the skin behind your ears, that shortly you'll be on your way down.

Instead, the birds are chirping away like they're having a karaoke party and I'm wearing shorts.  SHORTS.  The indignity.

I'm reminded, quite vividly, of picking up a glass of what I thought was water when I was a child and taking a sip.  It was milk.  I spewed white everywhere, not because I dislike milk (I love milk) but because the mismatch, the distance between my expectations and the substance that slopped over my tongue, was terrifying.

Maybe the lesson here is to have no expectations.  To feel at home nowhere.  To come to the world with the blank, peaceful mind of the yogi or the zombie or the inordinately inebriated.

I prefer to remain curmudgeonly.  Avast, summer!