So, September. I am making a face behind your back.
I will admit to having a volatile relationship with the calendar. Volatile is not too strong a word. I sneer at it a lot, and shake my head at the ambitious humans who have tried throwing a rope around the universe and its chaos. The earth is here and the sun is there, just like they were, so hey, we’re doing it all over again, life is cyclical, it has seasons, get it?
I reject this metaphor, and I’m generally a pretty metaphor-friendly guy. But life is linear, at least this life, and while I enjoy romantic comedies and a solid fairy tale and occasionally poetry, I’m not a fan of this seasonal affective disorder that we call the calendar. We are in a different place. Me, certainly.
And this September sucked. It started with the death of our dog, expected but resonating with this little whiff of mortality that’s been understandably hanging around our house for a while now. Something happened, something changed, something existed and now does not exist, and probably it was cumulative and surely it was sad, but it left me shrugging my shoulders with nothing much to say.
Then my computer died, and that coincided with profitable work temporarily drying up, the weather beginning to get dicey and now we’re off to the races. The perfect storm for funkness, for feeling blah and taking it out on my pancreas and my heart and many, many arteries, not to mention people who have to live with me.
So I quit you, September. You’re an artificial construct of 30 days but I’m glad you’re over anyway. I’m not going to go full Epicurus here but there’s still plenty of joy to be found, and if I couldn’t scrape it up in September then maybe I’m going about it in the wrong way, you think? So I’m ditching September and looking forward to October, with its caramel and woodstoves and orange leaves and shoulder pads. October is fiction, too, but it’s my kind. I need a good romantic comedy and October, I think, is just what the doctor ordered.