NOW it's autumn

I judge the advent of autumn in many ways:

The calendar, which is usually unreliable since it can still be in the 90s for weeks.

The turning of the leaves, except this year it's been so dry we're just happy to see trees still having leaves, no matter the color.

The urge to put away all white slacks and sandals. (But I did that the week after Labor Day so it hardly counts. Some Southern traditions are ingrained.)

Turning off the a/c and opening the windows is a hint. Turning off the ceiling fans, which I did today, is closer to confirmation.

Eyeing my closet and moving tank tops and crop pants out, three-quarter sleeve garments in.

Realizing I have to put on real shoes or risk very cold toes. Happened this morning. Had to scramble for loafers, so this afternoon I packed away my sandals.

But the one sure way to know it's autumn for me: the changing of the purse. Good-bye woven bag with bright orange trim, hello dark brown leather.

There's a nip in the air!

Spring closet attrition

While I know it's too early to move my winter clothes into the other room and the spring/summer into the main closet (because if I do I know it will snow or do some other wintry thing just to get back at me), I have decided to let it happen by attrition. In other words, not finding what I want to wear, I'm going to raid the s/s closet and then leave it in the main one when it's time to hang it up. I'll even take sweaters into the other room. It wouldn't hurt to start making a box for the second hand store of those things that I think if I see them _one more time_, I'll start growling.

As to shoes, the boots are packed away and two pair of sandals have made their way out of hibernation. I hung one heavy coat. I folded fewer socks last laundry.

Oh, yes, I can feel the warmth starting in my bones, but I'm also wary of Mother Nature and her ill ways.

By their heels you will know them

At the bridal shower Sunday afternoon we were all doing what women do at bridal showers: sitting in a circle and talking. The bride was opening her gifts, her sister-in-law was recording gift and giver, and the rest of us were taking time out of our conversations with old/new friends to properly administer oohs and ahhs. In a word: typical.

Then, because, well, I don't know why, I looked at the floor, then up at everyone's shoes. With all legs crossed, perhaps it was the rhythm of the swinging ankles which caught my attention, but I started noticing the shoes, particularly the heels. We were a divided group: stilettos, high wedges, platform wedges on one side of the circle and flats, or nearly so, on the other.* Then I looked up. Sure enough, the bride and her entourage were swinging heels the rest of us used to wear without thinking about it, and the flat-foots were, well, older by a generation.

It's not like I was surprised or anything, but reality did finally hit home.

*Notable exception: MOO-1, or before I became enamored of Mother of the Occasion, the Mother of the Bride, who wore a wedge sandal.