November in California is marked by an Autumnal distinctive chill, the winds wafting with seasonal Salty Caramel Macchiato and a light dusting of Cinnamon. Birkenstocks and Flip Flops begin their migratory sojourn to the southern end of the closet, while knee high boots make the long trek northern bound. Winter Yoga pants in Plum and Namaste Sandalwood Brown, with additional rib line stitching for warmth inch their way over Sun burst oranges and Oceanic breeze blues, while cedar balls rustle around with our winter scarves and sweaters, getting restless for release. We yearn for turtlenecks, over-sized socks, and knee high boots, with the same sense of urgency as our Northern and Eastern neighbors of practical apparel, as a leftover primal chromosome of our DNA.
As for me, Knee high boots and socks serve as a subtle veil over my inner Sasquatch, who is now on high alert for Hibernation. Some may have biological clocks that tell them when to wake and when to have babies. Mine is a seasonal stop watch that pauses time by September, moving at the pace of a puppy with a mouthful of peanut butter until early March. It starts with the little things.
Razors have been relegated to the drawer with suntan oil, beach bikinis, and summertime novels. My leg hair has decreed a ban on wax, plucking, shaving, or forced removal or eviction of any follicle without a warrant. Sliding into bed with my beloved, I confirm we are on the same page.
“Ouch! I think I just sheared off a toe snuggling up to you! Are we conserving on razors due to the Government Shut Down, or are you with me on this hibernation mode?”
I figure if the Red Sox can let their beards grow for an entire season, I don’t see why I can’t let it all go too. My wife is giving me looks of grave concern. This was not in the brochure when she married me.
In addition, I have started squirreling away the kids Halloween Candy in the utility drawers with the extra batteries and wine charms, burrowing chocolate in with the dryer sheets. Under the guise of “Good Parenting”, I have managed to relieve my daughter of Twix bars and other foil-coated confectionaries within a week.
Lately, visions of Corningware have been spotted, dancing through my head. I crave carbohydrates and have begun hoarding them like Armageddonists hoard duck tape, water, and Cup-O-Noodles for the Apocalypse. I have caught myself swooning over Pinterest pictures of Casseroles in a very carnal way.
Mmmmmmm….. Casseroles. They are the multi-layered, cream of Heaven infused, cheese topped answer to my winter night’s dreams, which brings me to Casserole’s lovely little sister: Leftovers. In defense of my impenitent caloric ways, I am honoring my Mid-Western heritage. To stray too far from butter or a Cream of Mushroom soup in winter would offend my ancestral line. I’m pretty sure my ancestors came to America via the SS Gravyboat.
By 3 o’clock, my inner Sasquatch announces the time for PJ’s. As soon as I see the sun dipping down, my keys are already fumbling for the door knob to reunite me with my unrequited love for flannel. As a lesbian, I could own flannel all year around. It’s part of my membership package: Flannel, bowling shoes, chunky key chains, and a fruit basket. Being a Femme though, my flannel is various shades of Victoria Secret pinks and purples, and lined with ruffles or ribbon.
Sleep, Sleep, and More Sleep! Daylight savings seems so innocuous, and yet, take one hour of potential sunlight on the back end of my day, and shove it into the beginning of the “Ass Crack of Dawn-Dark-thirty”….robs me of any will power to hold on into the 5 o’clock news. My daughter is still working on her afternoon snack and homework, and I’m prepping my pillow and circling my mattress 20 times to settle in for a long winter’s nap.
Walking in my winter wonderland of expired gym memberships, expandable waistband jogging pants that see nary a jog, but more of a saunter, I limit my exercise to: jumping to conclusions, stretching my patience, and running out of time.
My inner Sasquatch heart beats to the old drum; pacing of the old ticker, realizing that hibernation, even in my little ways, remind me to S-L-O-W D-O-W-N the mental hamster wheel of insane and endless list-making and ego-driven goal setting. I can enjoy a night of “cozy on the couch” with the kids and my wife, a movie, and burned grilled cheese sandwiches with a cup of piping hot tomato soup, nestled in our flannel pj’s. Tonight I will dream the dream of happy Wookies.