The weather is absolutely perfect, it really is: low 80's, light breeze, moderate humidity. In fact, were I to shut my eyes and picture things just so, it would be completely possible to imagine myself at home, lounging away on the sandy circumference of my island paradise.
Except. I am wearing two shirts and a cardigan to ensure that my modest chest and seductive shoulders are not exposed to the conservative public. I leave my apartment each day, hoping to receive the country-wide memo that announces how this ridiculous spring dress code has finally made the leap into near fabric-less summer gear.
I have dreams of Italians stopping me in the street, "Haven't you heard?" they'd ask. "Sweater weather is over!" Then we would enthusiastically shred our cardigans by tossing them into the air and proceed to frolic under the trees, relishing in the comfort of deep necklines and the eradication of sleeves altogether.
Of course, I am aware that this fantasy is confined within the fuzzy edges of my REM sleep cycle. So, until the temperature hits something more comparable to scalding, I will have to find ways to come to terms with the fact that my head is two shades darker than the rest of me.
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