Like lots of people, I love fall. I love the colors, the weather with sunny days and cool nights, the decorations, the pumpkins and apples and festivals that celebrate both. In the Chick house, though, we have a couple of extra reasons why we love autumn. And it’s not what you might expect.
For me, fall represents the end of albino season. For the Big Man, it’s the end of feet season.
I’ll admit it. I’m pale. I would think that I quite possibly have no melanin in my skin at all, except for the preponderance of freckles (or are those age spots?) that convince me otherwise. It’s a little-known fact that Santa actually called me first, before he sought aid from Rudolph, to lead his sleigh on that snowy Christmas Eve. He figured the glow of my white legs could easily light the night skies. I was too busy eating cookies to lend a helping leg.
It shouldn’t be any surprise, then, that I welcome the return of pants, tights, boots, and turtlenecks each fall. Once the temperatures plunge a bit, I can shed my albino mantle and become she-of-the-milky-white-skin. My arms and legs cease to be the measuring stick by which others assess their tan. And I no longer sport a zebra pattern from applying “streak free” self tanners.
Fall also heralds the end of feet season. At least, that’s what the Big Man says. If you’re scratching your head in confusion right now, look down. What do you have on your feet? Now, what did you have on those feet in the middle of July? Was it flip-flops? Sandals? Teva’s? Were your feet, in fact, exhibitionists running around in nothing at all?
Therein lies the Big Man’s problem. He doesn’t think feet, mostly men’s feet, should be put on display when the weather turns warm. He’s never really explained this aversion to summer’s feet parade, but I’ve listened to him drone on and on and on about how the feet playoffs start in September followed by the feet championships in October. Apparently, if the “season” doesn’t include a ball that can be thrown, kicked, or hit in some way, he wants no part of it.
What can I say, he’s just weird. Maybe it’s because men don’t get pedicures. Maybe he had a run in with an officious bunion as a child. Maybe he’s got an anti-foot fetish. Or, maybe he looked down at his own size 14 boats feet and realized that some things are just freaks of nature.
Celebrate with me! In honor of the season I think I’ll bake a white chocolate cake, top it with whipped cream frosting, and toast the occasion with a glass of milk. Oh, and I’ll do all of this barefoot.