My name is September, and I’m dreading the first day of autumn. Yes, I’m aware of the irony. No, my lack of enthusiasm does not stem from a lifetime of enduring name-related puns. Probably.
Every year when fall (or, as I like to call it, the death of summer) rolls around, I find myself surrounded by people who seem to be enraptured with the chilly, depressing weather that inevitably accompanies the season. As an individual who is a) perpetually cold and b) happiest when the thermometer reads 95 degrees or higher, I am immune to the defensive fall-lover’s argument that cool temperatures are refreshing after a scorching summer in the Midwest. I probably should’ve gone to a school in Florida.
I should be accustomed to the annual hype by now, but honestly, people’s genuine enthusiasm for baggy sweatshirts still baffles me. Spending time outdoors is pleasant for approximately three months out of the year in South Dakota—shouldn’t we be mourning the close of the brief but glorious shorts-and-sandals period? Why celebrate the return of outerwear and (ugh) socks?
I certainly don’t mean to insinuate that I despise everything about autumn; after all, its commencement signals that it’s socially acceptable to order hot beverages at Starbucks and snuggle up next to space heaters. Admittedly, the season has its merits. It’s just a struggle each year to smoothly transition from (the far superior) baseball season to football season, from evening freedom to piles of homework and from satisfactory amounts of daylight to winter’s gloom.
As of Sunday, though, summer will officially come to a close, and I will be forced to reconcile with the impending seven months of sock-wearing. If anyone needs me this fall, I’ll be hibernating under a blanket and consoling myself with a venti pumpkin spice latte, eagerly awaiting the return of warmer weather.