How about Christmas? Mid-November they start ramming Santa Claus up your ass and it keeps up for a month and a half. It’s Christmas, bitch—happiness is mandatory. So stretch a smile across your exhausted face and buy, buy, buy. I’m already worried about what to get who, and with what money.
On New Year’s Eve it’s hard not to re-evaluate your life, and many of us don’t want to do that. So we drink, screech at the passing of time, and pass out. Funsies.
At some point, fall began to signal the coming of a string of holidays I wouldn’t mind skipping, along with the dramatic shut down of the growing world.
What does a gardener like me do all winter? I look at seed catalogues, order bulbs and tubers I have no room for, and fantasize about the sun coaxing the world back to life until depression knocks me beyond hope and I bury myself under a frost line of quilts. I spent last February in a fetal position, huffing a mason jar terrarium, because if I didn’t smell soil I’d die. And it all begins with a yellow maple leaf. But there’s a caveat and it’s a big one: Halloween.
You can do Halloween or not, nobody cares. Ignore it or make it everything, either way it’s yours, you own it, you don’t owe anybody a damn thing.
If you’ve stuck with me this far, It may surprise you to know I’m a depressive fuck, bringing the party down and keeping there as long as possible. Mankind is tedious and I’m not one to shut up about it. But the truth is kids can be interesting. I tend to like them even though I’m skeptical about where they’re heading. Never mind. People seem to shine when they’re moving through the single digits. Ten is shaky, by twelve it’s over.