I know it’s cliche to say how much I love All Things Fall: the weather, the leaves, the pumpkin-flavored everything, the blah blah blah. I can’t help it; it’s true.
The problem is that I love East Coast fall, not Arizona fall.
We traveled across the country to Pennsylvania a couple weeks ago to see family and friends. While we were there, I insisted that we visit a pumpkin patch.
Please note the deliciously bulky sweater, which I had to purchase
specifically for this trip.
The reason I insisted we go to the pumpkin patch despite the fact that it was a cold, damp, cloudy day? Is because I knew what was in store for me at the pumpkin patch in Phoenix two weeks later. Two. Weeks. LATER.
Sporting a cotton dress, sunglasses and cowboy boots (to ward off the desert dust).
You probably can’t see the layer of sweat, but that’s there, too.
(Also, could Ryan look any more miserable?)
Furthermore … loving the hay in PA:
Barely tolerating it in AZ:
Happy East Coast candy corn family:
Semi-annoyed desert scarecrow:
I do my best every year to drape our home and our lives in fall-esque decorations and activities. A “Happy Fall!” sign greets you at my front door; my pantry is stocked with canned pumpkin that will soon become pumpkin bread; I burn autumn spice candles like it’s my job.
In reality, it’s still in the 90s during the day and all the “fall” pretense feels a bit forced. Facebook pictures of brilliant orange leaves or my nieces bundled up in sweatshirt-covered costumes for Boo at the Zoo make me ache for a different place, if just for a month.
The blurry backside of Ariel, Merida and Rainbow Dash at the Cleveland Zoo.
It makes me nostalgic for home. I try not to dwell. I want to focus on the positives. The fact that we can finally open our windows at night for a slightly cool breeze. The Mickey ears that are waiting to be worn.
But for as much as I love Arizona, a desert fall just doesn’t quite measure up.