I always get depressed this time of year. My husband (obnoxiously) loves Fall because of pumpkin-flavored everything and his birthday, or whatever.
I don’t have anything against pumpkins or birthdays, but as we plunge into Fall, the days keep getting shorter. Which is bad enough, even without the mental reminder that it will soon be cold.
“I could never handle winter in New York,” Californians and Floridians tell me, “I hate the cold.” Guess what? I hate the cold too. And yet, for reasons undefined, I have suffered through 29 consecutive New York winters. (Except for those 4 years I spent in Binghamton, which is way worse.)
I remember walking through the parking lot after CPA review senior year, snow everywhere, freezing, wind blowing and stinging my ears, and promising myself that I would move out of New York as soon as possible.
And yet, here I am.
This year, the impending fall stings a little extra, because it reminds me that Tom and I have been living at home for almost a year. I’m grateful for my parents’ help, but I was sure we’d be on our own again by now, and I’m getting sick of the two-hour commute.
“The word you’re looking for is, ‘anyway…’”
Anyway, as I eat lunch at my desk for the millionth time, on one of the last, beautiful days of August, I just thought I’d remind us all:
Summer isn’t over yet. Go outside and play.
This message brought to you by a mixture of cynicism and idealism.