I should start keeping track; I don’t remember when I couldn’t go bare-legged anymore last year. But it seems late this year, I don’t remember a Canadian Thanksgiving weekend that got to 30C. It wasn’t exactly turkey weather, but we managed.
As lovely as the warm weather this weekend was (Will and I went to Port Credit to walk along the lake shore and enjoy the sunshine—it was almost too hot, even), I’m still wondering where the heck fall is. Sure, we’ve had tastes of it (like on October 1 for Nuit Blanche, the all-night arts festival in Toronto, when we froze our asses off—why couldn’t it have been 30C then?), but summer is lingering. Thanks, global warming. I shouldn’t be complaining, because soon enough we’ll be knee-deep in snowdrifts and complaining about that, but I’m Canadian, that’s what I do.
And in the meantime, I’ll wear my favourite summer shoes (I don’t wear them in the winter, I’m not comfortable wearing open-toed shoes with tights, I’m never sure if that’s a fashion faux-pas or not), and look like a deer in headlights. I was desperately trying not to blink.