Some people just know - creepy old ladies with one glass eye who, in psychological thrillers, can accurately predict the coming of winter by merely squinting their eyes (or eye...), war vets who can predict rain by a slight tingling feeling around the piece of shrapnel lodged deep in their thigh.
For me it's my feet. My feet can tell me, no matter how much warmth I've generated overnight or how many layers of socks I stuff them in, that Fall is here.
And Fall seems to have officially ascended upon us, because I woke up this morning compelled to dig out my seven-inch square ceramic heater. While I'd rather not have to use it, I love this thing. In the winter, it follows me throughout the day. Sitting at my desk, checking emails in the morning, eating meals at my kitchen table, to work (depending on the place), and, finally, stretched out into the plug closest to the chair where I watch television.
The worst are times when I am working somewhere where, understandably, having these devices hooked up en-masse creates an enormous fire hazard. Then I'm just extra careful in my smuggling.
I'm sure we're still due a few Indian Summer Days, those don't-waste-em-let's-get-outside-quick delights, but I'd say you're pretty safe to change out the wardrobe and let the kids bust out the Grannimal corduroy combo.
(Do they still make Grannimals?...)
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