MegsDregs
I love this season; how the rains have finally come and the air smells of rot and smoke, and one can wear pashminas and Dr. Martens again, while seeking out hot cheesy carbs and be contented with a steamy bath and an early night inside with slippers and a glass of red wine, a candle burning and a good book.
I have not been cold since 2016; this is not a cute metaphor for the love of motherhood keeping me warm, but the actuality that I’ve been both sweaty and upsetty continuously for the better part of two years. To illustrate my point, the zippers on both of my winter coats have been broken for this same duration and I haven’t found the need to fix them, yet. The stubbornly lingering post-pregnancy weight, coupled with my Western-exposed apartment, added to this absurdly hot-ass summer, had me craving October something fierce this year, and I don’t mind one bit that it’s started off on a soggy note (but then I always did love the rain, too).
I cannot stand being hot; it makes me fairly insane. I remember being enormously pregnant and sitting in front of my 8,000 BTU air conditioning unit, in varying shades of undress, crying because of the heat, much to the startled amusement of my spouse, who entered the apartment to behold this emotionally-fraught scene, unsure of what to do. I cannot peel off my skin…after clothes there’s nowhere to go. I cannot contend with being so hot, a cold shower finds me immediately sweaty after towelling off. I cannot easily acquire sustenance when I am completely tired of the taste of water (thank you, Grapefruit Perrier), and have no penchant to eat anything cooked. I cannot deal with restless nights in bed, being aggressively pelted by a fan and endlessly tickled by my cornea of baby hairs, trying to starfish my arms to get away from the body heat of my own self, only to finally wake up with numb limbs cramping. I cannot deal with going outside into the blinding sun and the deafening HuZzZzZzZ of cicadas in various states of amplification, walking to the wherever with sweating ears, reassuring myself that a run today was responsibly out of the question, because running in extreme heat makes me vomit (quite actually). I cannot deal with not being able to wear makeup, because it is so freaking hot, it will melt off my freaking face.
People that say they love summer most, as a season, are people that either have central air and/or pools, are retired and/or childless and/or have adult children and/or don’t fully understand the poignant beauty of there being a small nip in the air and having the luxury of pulling on warmed jeans and/or socks fresh from the dryer.
I am not these people.
Enter scene: October; October, with its reasonably-timed and temperate sunrises and sunsets, and its much-welcome Thanksgiving eats with family and friends, and all the birthdays of all the family and friends, and all the oranges and reds and blacks and yellows, and Halloween, which is like Christmas, but only lasts a day rather than a month and thusly, is much less effort and much more affordable; October, a lingering nod to the Roman empire (my favourite empire, to date), and a safe space for horror movies everywhere (which I still love, though I can’t enjoy as much anymore, because now I’m a parent and that shit scares me a lot more than it used to [more on this later]); October, with its creative-inducing spark of electrical love running in the air and through my mane as I breathe it in and exhale something new again.
October gave me life, gave me a son, gave me a best friend and a brother, gave me a wealth of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and memories chasing my cousins door-to-door, egging a Chumby ever-onward, drunk on tryptophan and spiced, gelatinous pies, porterhouse steaks and banana-vanilla cakes, a dozen costumed birthday parties spanning the spectrum of valiant to minimal effort and, of course, a bookend to close another year of learning, writing, laughing, being — what’s not to love?
MegsDregs 