There’s a moment every October in Oklahoma when the morning air finally feels like a promise kept. After months of oppressive, hair-frizzing, energy-sapping heat, the world exhales. The grass still looks a little crispy, sure, but suddenly it’s cool enough to take the dogs out without feeling like you’re about to dissolve into a puddle of sunscreen and regret.
I am not, and never have been, a warm-weather person. Some people thrive in the heat with the sun on their face, a tank top, and an iced coffee in hand. I am not one of those people. My DNA seems to have been coded for sweater weather. I wait all summer like a hibernating bear in reverse, longing for the day I can open the windows without inviting in a wall of humidity thick enough to chew.
Now that the chill has arrived, I am thriving. The dogs are too. During summer, our trips to the backyard were brief negotiations, with me pleading for a bathroom break and them eyeing the shade like it was a sanctuary. But with the air crisp and cool again, they’re bounding ahead, ears flapping, tails high, clearly saying, “Finally! This is our season.”
Inside, my four-month-old son is bundled in the cutest array of tiny sweaters and fuzzy beareared hats humanity has ever produced. There’s something about cold-weather baby clothes that makes me lose all sense of restraint. I used to think I was a reasonable adult, capable of prioritizing needs over wants. Then I saw a miniature corduroy pair of Winnie the Pooh overalls with a matching long sleeve shirt. All bets were off.
The chill also brings small domestic joys. The first cup of hot tea that doesn’t make me sweat. The satisfying weight of a blanket at night. The permission to turn the oven on without guilt. I can bake again without wondering if I’m singlehandedly raising the household temperature.
My husband, however, is not quite as enamored. Every degree the thermostat dips below 70 feels like a personal affront. He’s been eyeing the electric fireplace like it’s a life raft. While I’m delighting in throwing open the windows, he’s quietly digging out the thermal socks and muttering about “the long winter ahead” as if we’re preparing for a scene from Game of Thrones.
Marriage, it turns out, is a delicate balance between two people’s internal thermostats. In July, I’m the one fanning myself dramatically while he insists it’s not that bad. By October, the tables turn. Now he’s layered like an onion, and I’m finally comfortable enough to stop complaining. It’s an annual truce, really. We just take turns suffering.
Still, there’s something universally soothing about this time of year, no matter where you fall on the hot-cold spectrum. The air smells faintly of wood smoke and cinnamon. The sunsets seem softer and slower. Even the chaos of everyday life feels a bit cozier when there’s a reason to stay in and make chili and cornbread.
So yes, I welcome the chill of fall with open arms and an extra blanket for my husband. The dogs and I are ready for long walks and cozy evenings. The baby will continue to be the best-dressed member of the family. And if my husband ends up shivering under three comforters while I sip my cocoa with the window cracked open, well, that’s just the price of true love in Oklahoma.
After another summer of triple-digit misery, this cool breeze feels like redemption. Bring on the frost, the flannel, and the fuzzy socks. Fall, I’ve missed you.
Be kind to your neighbors Be kind to your pets Enjoy the cool weather while it lasts