It’s here already. The official end of summer. What does that mean to me? To my friends? To women everywhere?
Put them all away. I regret to remind you, but you know what I mean. The white pants, white skirts and white handbags. It’s a law. Women may not wear white anythings from this Labor Day until after next Memorial Day. I think the real meaning of Labor Day is for someone to tell us what we may or not wear.
No one says, “Happy Labor Day,” “Merry Labor Day,” Or “Have a holly, jolly Labor Day.” No one expects parades, fireworks or the World Series. But it’s a holiday and it has rules.
Now that we all look properly, unsummerly drab, the next thing we have to deal with are the curious, nosy or interested people who, to a person, ask, “How was your summer?”
I am tempted to say, “The same as winter, but hotter.” Or perhaps, “A lot like winter but with fewer clothes.” Have I missed the cue to rave about my fascinating trip to the Talahatchee Bridge? To brag about my reserved spot on the shuttle to Mars? To reminisce about learning to pickle a herring in Sweden?
What if I said, “It was too hot to go outside very much, to humid to get comfortable, Too buggy to remain unscathed by mosquitoes. The garden looks abysmal because the plants took a strong disliking to the heat and drought. The petunias drooped by the Fourth of July, my prize David Austin Roses refused to bloom and our tomato plants forgot about yielding. I think I spent as much time indoors this summer as I do in the cold, wet weather of February.
But it doesn’t matter what I say or how I answer the question. It always seems to me, that after I answer, the other person can talk about how wonderful THEIR summer was.