When the temperature gets up over 68 degrees, I take every opportunity to get outside and bask in the sun's loving embrace (with SPF 30 or more of course) since I know, maddeningly, that the dreary winter weather will also eventually reappear to literally rain on my parade. Kind of like the annoying guy you met through your brother-in-law who invited himself to your gathering and amazingly, didn't realize you don't really care for his company, despite the blatantly crestfallen look on your face that you made no effort to hide when you opened the door and saw him standing there - empty handed as usual - asking where the food and drink were. Yeah, really.
So a couple weeks ago when I was called for jury duty for the first time but not picked for the trial, I wasn't too sad since it was pushing 72 that day. J., Ava and I jumped in the car to enjoy the last of the early evening sun over on Alki in West Seattle. We got a bite to eat then spread our blanket at a quiet neighborhood waterfront park and watched the water sparkle and occasional runner and people walking their dog pass by. Ava doesn't seem to mind the sun or be as cold sensitive as I am. She loved practicing her pulling up skills while I lie still in my black shirt trying to draw every sun ray to my core.
That weekend, I had a heat-gasm as the temperature soared to the low 90s, which most Seattleites define as the fourth concentric circle of hell; circles one through three being places where they value job growth over the protection of natural resources, places where people are openly intolerant, places where dressy means 'no jeans,' and places that don't recycle.
We set out for Canada, but our heart (and gas budget) wasn't in it, so after a leisurely stop at the Tulalip Outlet stores, we turned back and lounged at Gas Works Park in Seattle, which, in retrospect, we should have done from the outset. Ava looked fetching as usual in her colorful linen summer outfit, courtesy of our friends with a daughter a year older.
She was quite taken with the geese and pigeons bobbing about, and a family of Scottish visitors who sounded like Mrs. Doubtfire were all quite taken with her, coming over to make faces, squeeze her toes and generally fuss and coo, which she reveled in.