It is 51 degrees here this morning and "nippy." For we residents on the west coast of Florida, that's cold. I know, I know, comparatively speaking we shouldn't have anything to complain about since this morning in Bismark, North Dakota it is currently, at the time of this post, a frosty 3 degrees above zero. Still, it is all relative to what one is accustomed to, and for me I am accustomed to and prefer temperatures at this time of the year in the high 70s to low 80s. At 51 degrees, it is hardly bikini weather, but I see signs of a promised spring to come. Each year I gauge the advent of the coming of the longed for warmer spring weather by certain events that occur with the predictability of a precise time piece. Last summer's leaves on the oak trees have given way to a thick coating of golden pollen sprouts that with the slightest breeze rain down to coat every surface with a thick yellow haze and to clog to overflowing the gutters on my house. The dormant weeds that I was so sure I had eradicated last year begin with a renewed vengeance to sprout up in my yard as if to mock my feeble attempts to thwart Mother Nature. In the world of sporting events, I mark the first race of the new NASCAR season, the Daytona 500, as a sure sign that spring is just around the corner. Closely following on it's heals awaits the granddaddy of all golf tournaments, The Masters, played on the lush fairways of the August National golf course, nestled among the most beautiful, breathtaking flowering foliage imaginable. And then, ladies and gentlemen, (mostly "gentlemen"), there is the surest sign that a new spring season has finally dawned, the appearance on magazine vendor's display shelves all across America, the iconic Sport's Illustrated Swim Suit Edition! (Is that a trumpet fanfare I hear in the background?)
This year's release of the swim suit edition sort of snuck up on me. Ms. Judi announced last evening that if I expected to have cereal for my breakfast in the morning that I would need to go to the store the following morning to pick up another gallon of milk. Braving the 51 degree weather, I grabbed my winter coat and headed out for the local grocery store. Entering the store I made a right up isle number 10 toward the dairy section in the rear of the establishment where I knew the milk is located. An entire half of isle 10 is devoted to the display of every monthly publication known to man. Usually I just tut-tut my way past the dozens of periodicals in my quest to accomplish my assigned goal of picking up those articles of food stables that Judi had entrusted me to obtain in full by providing me with her carefully crafted list. This morning...the milk would have to
wait. There among the motorcycle, woodworking, home and garden, crossword, electronics, scrapbooking and zodiac magazines loomed the epitome of summer days to come, the alluring cover photograph of one Miss. Bar Refaeli, seductively adorning this year's swim suit edition. (I swear I detected a chorus of heavenly voices singing reverently somewhere in the background! Probably over close to cheese and wine section.)
I don't subscribe to Sports Illustrated, obtaining all the sports information I require and then some from my nightly dose of ESPN. The only monthly periodical I have delivered to my home is National Geographic, and that is because it always contains such nice pictures. Nor am I ever tempted to purchase this one particular edition of Sports Illustrated, even though it too contains some really nice pictures. But it certainly isn't beneath me to linger for an extended period of time in Isle 10 to offer a silent but earnest critique of the "nice pictures" contained within. Like I said...the milk would have to wait.
Marvel, did I, at the many examples of engineering prowess whereby what appears to be no more than 50 cents worth of fabric can so precisely adorn the all but naked women in the most precise locations on their bodies that one would otherwise swear would require at least another dollar or two of material. And then there is also several interesting pages whereby no cloth is utilized...just body paint! I stared quite intently in long moments of appreciation for the artistry that must be required to paint a map of the world with such accuracy in just the right spots! I'm thinking, "Who gets to do this?" I'm currently without employment, have a pretty steady hand when it comes to artsy-crafty kind of things, and I also own a pretty reliable digital camera that I certainly would be willing to bring to bare (pun intended) if given the opportunity to do so. Some people have all the luck!
Ah, but I purposefully digress. I appreciatively replaced the already well dogeared copy of the swimsuit issue back into the shelf and walked out of the store being even more convinced that the warmer days of spring time would soon be upon us, to be followed by the sweltering days of summer that hold forth renewed trips to the beach where I know will be once again a bevy of real live bathing beauties unabashedly displaying the latest swim fashion. It can't happen soon enough.
Darn if I didn't get all the way home to realize I had forgotten the milk!
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