It happens this time of year. Autumn, in both nickname and manipulative manners, is entirely geared toward descension. The leaves fall. The temperature drops. The light dims. We turn our calendar pages until but one remains. And then. And then. And then.
This is one we actually don't think about. Okay, New Year's Resolutions matter for the forethought, but nobody really follows through with them except sadists and the overly religious. People are generally more concerned with where they'll be New Year's Eve than they are for the first three months of any given year, unless they're about to give birth. And Spring? It is lovely, except that it's never quite hot enough for those most miserable during Winter, and they're always the most vocal. Summer is unequivocally cruel and only celebrated by those in educational institutions and the clinically stupid. Show me someone who enjoys humidity and temperatures north of 90 and I'll show you the who's who of most likely to camp out for the newest iPhone.
Fall is the only time of year people do not want to end, die-hard snow-sport enthusiasts excepted. The next day will likely not be any better than today. There will be less light and more cold, but it's not that we're dreading tomorrow; conversely, we still have a few major holidays remaining. The Good Ones. With our families and shit like that. So we stand in the one time of year that we're content enough to just let it be today. The sales of Nativity calendars are nothing if not pure irony.
So then I found myself drumming on a steering wheel yesterday, counting the days remaining in this particular post. Eight. It's a once-per-week gig, and I will miss one day for "vacation", so it's expiration is not all that imminent. I'd be lying if I said the counting was entirely arbitrary, because the act was in anticipation of The Big Move. I'd also be amiss were I to describe the act as a desperate bargaining act for deliverance or some self-pleading for assurance that it would all soon enough be over. I like the job fine enough, even if it doesn't make me wet and lustfully ripping off my garments.
Maybe that's just the metaphor for Life as I happen to find it right now. It looks super great and we're all having fun, but maybe there's something lacking below the surface. Not that I wish it to change right now; I might even be in the autumn of my New York Existence for a nice little bit. I just might take a little more time to appreciate all those things that should be given a little more time to be appreciated. Good friends. Late night bars. People with whom I agree politically on every street corner and nook and cranny in between. Let's throw museums in there, even if it's disingenuous.
And I'll keep counting. Some days it will be in anticipation. Others in sheer terror. The one certainty is that it will always be down.
This is one we actually don't think about. Okay, New Year's Resolutions matter for the forethought, but nobody really follows through with them except sadists and the overly religious. People are generally more concerned with where they'll be New Year's Eve than they are for the first three months of any given year, unless they're about to give birth. And Spring? It is lovely, except that it's never quite hot enough for those most miserable during Winter, and they're always the most vocal. Summer is unequivocally cruel and only celebrated by those in educational institutions and the clinically stupid. Show me someone who enjoys humidity and temperatures north of 90 and I'll show you the who's who of most likely to camp out for the newest iPhone.
Fall is the only time of year people do not want to end, die-hard snow-sport enthusiasts excepted. The next day will likely not be any better than today. There will be less light and more cold, but it's not that we're dreading tomorrow; conversely, we still have a few major holidays remaining. The Good Ones. With our families and shit like that. So we stand in the one time of year that we're content enough to just let it be today. The sales of Nativity calendars are nothing if not pure irony.
So then I found myself drumming on a steering wheel yesterday, counting the days remaining in this particular post. Eight. It's a once-per-week gig, and I will miss one day for "vacation", so it's expiration is not all that imminent. I'd be lying if I said the counting was entirely arbitrary, because the act was in anticipation of The Big Move. I'd also be amiss were I to describe the act as a desperate bargaining act for deliverance or some self-pleading for assurance that it would all soon enough be over. I like the job fine enough, even if it doesn't make me wet and lustfully ripping off my garments.
Maybe that's just the metaphor for Life as I happen to find it right now. It looks super great and we're all having fun, but maybe there's something lacking below the surface. Not that I wish it to change right now; I might even be in the autumn of my New York Existence for a nice little bit. I just might take a little more time to appreciate all those things that should be given a little more time to be appreciated. Good friends. Late night bars. People with whom I agree politically on every street corner and nook and cranny in between. Let's throw museums in there, even if it's disingenuous.
And I'll keep counting. Some days it will be in anticipation. Others in sheer terror. The one certainty is that it will always be down.
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