Oct. 3: Seasonal Affective Disorder?

Yeah, so the debate and other election-related stuff are the hot topics in the blogosphere right now. But the other thing people keep writing about is how much they love fall. And I’m just gonna come right out and say it: I do not love fall. It’s my least favorite season.

It’s not because of where I live; in fact, this time of year is quite pleasant in the northwest weather-wise. It’s not unheard of for the really cold weather to hold off until mid-November. But I guess I’ve just never understood the appeal of autumn. To me, it is a season of dying. To me, it is not pretty.

For starters, the skies change from a beautiful clear blue to grey and rainy. Bleah.

The leaves fall and mess up the sidewalks and gutters. The tree-lined streets in my neighborhood go from green and shaded to dead and bare. Bleah about this too.

I don’t like getting up in the morning when it’s still dark. (I realize this continues all winter long, but by winter I’m used to it; I still don’t like it, but I’m used to it.)

The kids can’t play outside as much—or at all—and bug me to find ways they can entertain themselves indoors. That’s what Disney Channel is for, Children.

I don’t like the filth and wet the kids and dogs track in every time they’ve been outside.

Oh, how it sucks to watch poor Victor rake and rake and rake.

Our weekend neighborhood gatherings end, and we sometimes don’t see each other for months.

Although the changing colors in the hills around us are interesting to see, golds and browns and oranges are my least favorite colors in the spectrum. I also know that in a very short time those trees with the changing leaves will be bare and look dead. Remember? I don’t like that.

I hate the spiders and other many-legged creatures that look for shelter inside my house. They don’t realize they’re committing suicide—between Vic’s big shoes and our bug-eating kitten, the inside of my house is definitely not a place called hope.

I’m really not fond of my body’s apparent desire to grow its own layers of warmth as the temperatures cool. Stupid body.

Here’s what I don’t mind about this time of year: the cooler temperatures, always having an excuse to curl up with a blanket and a good book, the knowledge that Christmas on its way. That stuff’s not so bad.

But spring—that’s my season. All that new life. Blue, sunny skies. We can shuck sweaters and long pants. Tulips, daffodils, crocuses. Everything looks clean. The dreariness of winter ends... to me, that’s beauty.

I’m just biding my time.