I was born in November, that time of the year when the trees look naked and bereft and the Christmas cheer hasn't touched the streets quite yet. That drizzly season when all you want to do is bury yourself in a warm quilt accompanied by a good book and a glass of wine. Children of the fall are like that—we carry a little of that fallen leaves sadness wherever we go.
Every year, right before my birthday, the perfect sunny world I've been living in inevitably starts to crumble, falling apart fast around me. That's autumn for you. Every year, taken down by the jazzy melancholy, I fail to make birthday plans and end up winging it, doing something childishly reassuring, like browsing picture books in a tucked away bookstore or catching a late movie; putting on warm socks in anticipation of the cold and taking Polaroids like a Pinterest girl. Sometimes I let somebody drag me away from the comfortable routine and celebrate my birth in a drinking game way, which makes the possibility of me slipping on the wet pavement just a tad too real.
That being said, it's probably worth mentioning that it's almost my birthday, and if I didn't cheer myself up by some presents already, I'd be a little bit depressed. I can't help it. It's November, and I blame it for everything sad and melancholic in my life, and my mother, by association, for letting me be born in the rainiest month of the year. I think one time I actually tried to relocate my birthday to a different, warmer month (I mean, how many people actually have access to my ID anyway—cops excluded), but I could never make anybody come to my imaginary birthday party in the la-la land.
The interesting thing about this post is that I'd written the first half two years ago, and my feelings about it are exactly the same as they were back then. I think I'm way more jaded now, but somehow these lines still hold the same covert tribute to the fall, which has always been my most favorite and my least favorite season of all. You can't change when, where, or who you were born to, but if you think about it, there's so many things that you can. My romance with autumn may not make much sense to anyone but me, but it's my party, and I'm the only one it has to make sense to.