Long Run
My wounds from a visit to my dermatologist are healing nicely. Most were simply freezes. One was an actual cut. She dug for a sample. It came back benign, an age spot or seborrheic keratosis which Siri transcribed as “February caratosis (sic)”. Either way all is good and my skin is busy regrowing; I’ll go back in a year to make sure it’s till behaving itself.
The outside news is good as well. The rain is still falling, and the temperature has dropped. It feels like a faux fall, however, cool in that it’s no longer baking hot but not cool enough for a sweater or even a long-sleeved shirt. And any talk of a fire is ridiculous. I can still wear shorts, although that’s really no big deal in Texas. I’ve seen grown men show up in them at the golf course, when the temperature was in the 50s. I draw the line there, because it has to be drawn somewhere.
Of course, I also think that September 1 is the deadline for wearing white shoes and linen, but the universe of people who abide by those rules is vanishingly small. So, it’s really no surprise that grown men now wear short pants, all the time. But I have no desire to be an arbiter of fashion. I am what I am, an artifact of an age gone by, noting what we might be losing as we rush pell-mell into the future with little regard for what disregarding the past might cost us in the long run. But isn’t that the argument always made about change?