It's that time of year--in fact it's already well past that time of year--when the mercury's risen so high it can't get any muggier and it feels like it's been this way for weeks, when you can hear the sound of your own paper-shuffling echo in the emptiness of a Friday office at 4pm. It's the voluptuous late afternoon of summer, when teeny tank tops and a lack of focus feel completely right...until you see the September issues of the magazines which have already been here for a week or more, piling up like so many unwieldy bricks by your bedside, AND RUINING WHAT'S LEFT OF SUMMER!
I'm not ready to think about fall, about over-the-knee boots, about Astrakhan coats. Or about the goals, ambition, and freshened drive that come packaged in all that Back-To-School, Back-To-Work, Back-To-The-Fast-Track purposefulness. So many ads, so many things to need, so many features to read. Go away! The tomatoes are just ripe and full on my neighbor's vine...IT'S NOT TIME TO THINK ABOUT CABLE-KNIT SWEATER DRESSES.
In case those 4 lb. issues of Vanity Fair and Vogue didn't notice, it's still gonna be August--and slothful, purpose-missing summer--for, like, a while. Natch.