I don’t mean late as in, belated. I mean late as in, good-grief-it’s-already-August-and-therefore-late-summer-and-kids-are-going-back-to-school-and-there’s-a-chill-in-the-air-and-I-still-want-my-sunny-afternoons-lounging-by-a-pool. That kind of late. And it’s that kind of late that I hate (hey, that rhymes! I’m a poet and I didn’t even know it).
But instead of moping around, staring out the window as one, then two, then three leaves fall off the trees until I’m mummy-wrapped in long johns, blankets and a balaclava (you think I’m exaggerating. I wore long jeans and three layers yesterday. In 80-degree weather.), I’m going to celebrate summer with my mouth until the air turns crisp and smells faintly of cider, the leaves change color, pumpkins and scarecrows squat on doorsteps and it’s no longer appropriate for me to wear flip flops (though one time in high school, I walked to school in a skirt and flip flops in the dead of snowy winter because I was SUFFERING FOR FASHION. Lesson learned.). And then, at that point, I will finally hang my non-existent summer hat (because I look terrible in hats. True story.) and succumb to fall baking. Which isn’t succumbing at all, because I love fall baking. You’re not confused at all, I’m sure.
But AS I WAS SAYING, until then, let’s celebrate late summer. With our mouths. Ahem. (I’m so awkward.)5