Jen Solves the World's Problems...Again
"I don’t want to fight in a civil war. I am old and fat and I bruise easily."
I am a little melancholy today.
Weather-wise, I know summer’s not over. Tomorrow’s supposed to be 91 degrees, which is TWENTY degrees less than the 111 degrees they were predicting earlier in the week. ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN DEGREES, DID WE LOSE A WAR OR SOMETHING? (Actually, yes. We lost the war against climate change, but that is the subject for a different post.)
In my heart, even though there will still be stolen pool days here and there, summer is officially over. Labor Day always marks the time of death. Kids are back in school. The leaves are starting to turn. Pumpkin spice has weaseled its way into our consciousness. None of this is problematic, especially because I’m a basic enough bitch to love fall. As beautiful as summer in Chicago is, fall takes it to the next level. Trust and believe I will pumpkin the front porch TF up, as it’s my favorite season for outdoor décor.
Still, the transition is getting to me this year, having spent half the summer on a book deadline and then another chunk being an indoor cat because of Covid. It all went by too fast. Plus, losing Jimmy Buffett—the king of sand and sun and boat drinks—was a shitty way to begin the last official weekend. Speaking of, I needed to buy margarita fixings yesterday, and almost all things marg-related had been cleaned out at the grocery store, so everyone must have had the same idea.
I’m particularly sad that my club is shutting down for the season, as it’s open only from May until Labor Day. Some members extend the season during September (which we’re doing), but it’s not the same. There’s no dining service and so many of my buddies are getting their regular lives started again after a big summer and won’t be extending.
I think I’ve mentioned my country club here before, likely to say it’s a country club in name only. If you’d ask any member, they’d tell you it’s more like an affordable YMCA summer camp for families, and specifically for adults who drink. The club was founded more than 100 years ago because a group of Northern Italian immigrants wanted a place on a lake to shoot skeet. (Hence the name The Alpine Club.) For a century, all the members were second, third, fourth, and fifth generation, descended from the founders. They only opened up membership to outsiders (and Sicilians) in the past decade. There’s an entire group of people who’ve been there their entire lives, and, holy shit, their stories are epic! Earlier in the summer at dinner, my friend Laurie mentioned another member, explaining, “His dad had the second motor boat on the lake, after local fishermen blew up my dad’s first one.”
Um… what? Go back, I think you skipped over something important.
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