Life in Arizona is always a see-saw compared to the rest of the country. Our weather, our seasons, our everything is always out of whack. You're enjoying Fall? Welcome to 100 degrees in October. Winter? We're wearing shorts one day, jackets the next and three days later, it is perfect bbq weather again.
Don't get me started on Summer. There's not enough therapy in the world for that.
The trees have turned yellow and are refusing to give it up. Our yard is a blanket of yellow pollen-covered flowers, the kind that look pretty but induce an allergic misery that lasts for weeks. The flowers pile in my neighbors' driveways and run down the street in a yellow tsunami when someone drains a pool.
The weather is changing; we are quickly leaving months of "nice" for months of "oh god why did I move here?"
It was 103 yesterday yet, still, everyone here is refusing to call it "Summer." Probably because it isn't. Summer or not, the winds of change have arrived, bringing with them a hot slap-you-in-the-face oven like feel every time I step outside.
The changes aren't just with the weather. We're having a lot of personal upheaval. We are switching schools; it is time for a change, to say the least.
The countdown is on: Only three weeks until I never drive down that street again, drive into that familiar school driveway, see the same people I have seen for the past three years. As a parent, I know the change is the right thing. We need to go. Still, my fondness for nostalgia has slapped me across the face repeatedly, reminding me of all the things I did or didn't do right or wrong, whispering doubts in my ear, making me question who I am and what I am and any choice I've made to get me here.
I've questioned everything these past few weeks. Are these friendships really just acquaintances? Do I continue to try to nurture these bonds, or should I just let the cards fall where they must and just move on with my life?
Just as if seems there is no ending to the yellow trees, I know the green will emerge and, with it, the 103 temperatures will soon turn to 110, 111...117.
You can't fight city hall. You can't fight the weather. I can't fight this change that I know is needed. I have to learn to adapt.
Don't get me started on Summer. There's not enough therapy in the world for that.
The trees have turned yellow and are refusing to give it up. Our yard is a blanket of yellow pollen-covered flowers, the kind that look pretty but induce an allergic misery that lasts for weeks. The flowers pile in my neighbors' driveways and run down the street in a yellow tsunami when someone drains a pool.
The weather is changing; we are quickly leaving months of "nice" for months of "oh god why did I move here?"
It was 103 yesterday yet, still, everyone here is refusing to call it "Summer." Probably because it isn't. Summer or not, the winds of change have arrived, bringing with them a hot slap-you-in-the-face oven like feel every time I step outside.
The changes aren't just with the weather. We're having a lot of personal upheaval. We are switching schools; it is time for a change, to say the least.
The countdown is on: Only three weeks until I never drive down that street again, drive into that familiar school driveway, see the same people I have seen for the past three years. As a parent, I know the change is the right thing. We need to go. Still, my fondness for nostalgia has slapped me across the face repeatedly, reminding me of all the things I did or didn't do right or wrong, whispering doubts in my ear, making me question who I am and what I am and any choice I've made to get me here.
I've questioned everything these past few weeks. Are these friendships really just acquaintances? Do I continue to try to nurture these bonds, or should I just let the cards fall where they must and just move on with my life?
Just as if seems there is no ending to the yellow trees, I know the green will emerge and, with it, the 103 temperatures will soon turn to 110, 111...117.
You can't fight city hall. You can't fight the weather. I can't fight this change that I know is needed. I have to learn to adapt.
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