Girls in the Fall

Something happens to girls in the Fall.

It begins faintly around mid-August, once the novelty of summer has rusted to near hatred, and the first few harbingers of Fall reveal themselves, however slight, that our frenzied wait begins. We Southern girls must wait the longest. Not until the rest of the country has surpassed Autumn fully en route to Winter will our Fall truly begin. But wait we will, masterfully preparing (boot shopping) for those dropping temperatures, sometimes near the fifties!

Is it the wait that induces our frenzy? Our DNA? Some primordial leftovers from crafting our loincloths into something warmer, adding fur both protectively and just maybe, because it looked cute on our cave husbands? I don’t know. But no doubt, when those pre-season football whistles begin to blow and that JCREW catalog arrives with its Fall Preview showcasing wispy stick women coddled in cardigans among orangish woodsy backgrounds, it’s over. Fuhgetaboutit.

Like this.

Like, what is even happening here? I like it.

 

Do I want pumpkin shit in my coffee? No. Not even a little. But I don’t mind the deluge of pumpkin flavoring making its way into thousands of consumeable items, because its meaning surpasses flavor. In the Fall Fantasy, it means sweaters and scarves. Do you know the seratonin-dopamine discotque that breaks out in my brain when I hear the words Sweater Weather!? Do you know how exciting those infinity scarves are? Do I wear infinity scarves? Nooo, and yet somehow that didn’t stop me from browsing about 1,400 of them online, salivating at their patterns and the thought that some girl out there will be wearing them and she will look fantastiko, DID IT? How could I be psyched for strangers wearing an accessory I don’t? Um, I dunno. It’s what I mean about girls in the Fall. It goes on..

It means FOOTBALL and something to “do” on Sundays, in your pajamas if you want! It means Red Beans and Rice and soup and STEW. Group text shit-talking and creative/perverted Fantasy Football names. It means PLAID SHIRTS PEOPLE. It means wedding season and chic Fall dresses. It means campfires and that smell on your clothes. Pea-coats and tea and brisk walks in the park. It means your boyfriend looking cute in a grey hoodie sweatshirt. And kissing in the cold, and how for some reason it’s different–warmer, better.

Of course it conjures up the Holidays too, which is another fever all on its own, with very similar symptoms. Just the idea gets my Fall heart pumping! I can smell the live Christmas tree now. There’s no thought of Holiday realities that include the misery of modern American Air Travel and family freakouts or that time I got too drunk during Scattergories and dropped those F bombs in front of concerned adults. These fluttery dreams, even if they are illusions, are at least half the fun. They don’t include conflicts or drunken meltdowns. They do include fancy Holiday parties (never go to any) and sparkly dresses to wear and kissing your love under mistle toe! Have I done these things? No! Does that matter? No! It matters that I could, and the Gap commercials always make it seem highly likely. I even look forward to Holiday commercials! Jeez mahn.

But what I’m truly getting at here is something that invades and consumes the female brain. I may be entering sexist territory here, but I confront it every year–Among friends, on TV, at strangers in the store, at groups of girls at Football games, and within myself. It’s a necessity. (Wait no it isn’t) It’s an industry. It’s huge. It’s had us salivating for months, on the constant lookout, thinking strategically about our approach. There’s a method to it. It’s what the season is all about. It’s what makes the world round.

It’s fucking boots yall.

This all comes down to boots. We’re surrounded and tempted by images and advertisements and boutique windows whispering to us Boots. There’s boots in here. Step inside and be somebody in boots. And there’s so many options. So many ways to go. An obviously unnecessary amount of ways to go. But the boot phenomena is not about need. We’re deep in the Fall Fairy Tale now. Here is our Knight in Shining Armor. Only he’s wearing sassy new BEWTS. This is what made the intolerable heat worth it. Our rescue. Our romance. Our savior. It’s boots. Of every color and every kind.

grey-et-al-is-wishing-for-fall-boots

Boots!

You need a casual brown or beige boot as the versatile go-to. You need rubber snow or rain boots. You need a dressier, heeled black boot. You might throw in a casual flat black as well, depending on your chosen purse color for a while. You’ll need a lace up black one for the edgy but casual Fall outfit. And you’ll definitely require a few different “booties” for various outfits. A heeled black suede or velvet. (Can be worn with pants or a Fall romper or skirt for a night out) (I don’t go out) A neutral flat ankle boot, to wear with a rolled up skinny pant or casual floral daywear dresses. There’s the classic riding boot to go with skinnies and the aforementioned plaid shirt. Or leggings and an oversized Grandfather sweater. You could do the over-the-knee boot too, to fierce up your look, dressy or casual. You may throw in a grey ankle boot, to be worn with an array of colors and can transition between black and brown. THERE’S JUST SO MANY. And we love them all.

It weirds me out and embarrasses me how exciting boots can be and a part of me

Oh God.

Oh God.

Sorry what? I got distracted by this pretty platter of ankle boots. Anyway it just sort of disturbs me how

Give it to me baby

Give it to me baby

What? God, see? This is what I mean..I just got lost looking at this melange of boots and what wearing a few of them will say about me, and whether I’m comfortable with that message should I wear them. Anyway look, I feel a little ashamed right now that I’ve even devoted writing this long with a buildup that landed on boots. There are realer things to talk about. Like things that matter. And I intend to get there. But I couldn’t be helped. This fever set it me a while ago and I’ve been playing it cool, but my eyes were cast on Fall months ago and I could no longer hide all the feelings it conjured up and my weird excitement for plaid. And cardigans. And kissing in cold weather. And BEWTS. Duh.

There’s this part of Fall which mimics the thrill of Christmas. It’s the anticipation. It’s imagining all the fun you’ll have. All the parties you’ll go to. And how great you’ll look doing it. IN YOUR BOOTS OF COURSE. I have no idea if any of this happens in the male brain. Doubtful. Anyway, Is all this a little narcissistic with inflated versions of self and broaching on being so vain you probably think this blog is about you? Yeah, it is. But I think it’s OK to venture into a Fairy Tale a while. But truth be told, Fall is beautiful and I find romance in so many parts of it. And in Louisiana we really do await its arrival a long time. I can’t even be sure it’s here yet exactly. But I can tell you it’s 90 degrees outside today and the humidity is low, and I’m about to play with Monty outside. But first I’ll change into a plaid shirt I bought months ago and some boots that make me happy. Because it’s Fall yall! It’s close enough. It’s nearly Christmas morning.

Heath, Happiness, Fall. Boots.

 

 

I Spy Something Monty

Think Where’s Waldo. Meets Dr. Seuss. Meets I Spy. Something Like That.

In the Bushes!

In Some Bushes

At the Beach!

At the beach!

On Some Stairs!

On Some Stairs

Fast Asleep

In the Ocean

In the Ocean

At the Park

At the Park

In the Light

In the Light

In the Dark

In the Dark

Waiting in Line

Waiting in Line

In a Ditch

In a Ditch

In the Bayou

Swimming the Bayou

smellingafish

Smelling a Fish!

On the Edge

On the Edge

In the Hedge

In a Hedge

In the Snow

In the Snow

WIth Eyes Aglow

With Eyes Aglow

In the Hills

In Creepy Hills :/

In Lake Ponchartrain

In Lake Ponchartrain

At the Table

At the Table

Playing a Game

Playing a Game!

In the Reflection

In the Reflection

Taking a Leak

Taking a Leak

In the Pond

In a Pond

Taking a Peak

Having a Peak

Health, Happiness, Monty the Great

Jumping Off.

I’m never up at this hour. But at roughly 6:40 am as I drove across Lake Ponchartrain, one of only a few lonely cars on the 24 mile bridge, it struck me just how sacred the early mornings are. Of course over water, there are no distinct markers of distance traveled besides mile markers on land, but somehow over uninterrupted waves there were these distinct and momentary glimpses into the context of my life where all the working pieces fit together. The sense, however fleeting, had me second guessing my entire history as a bona-fide night person. Maybe there’s something to these early morning hours where people are drifting into the routine of their day or into the hangover of their night, and in the middle is me, not exactly doing either, but finding my place still–stumbling on a whole in lieu of constant and incompatible parts.

Yesterday I attended JazzFest and I remember walking around in no known direction, attempting to find a group of my friends, which is almost a miracle if achieved in such a clusterfuck of a public arena, and this thought kept trying to get a hold of me. “What am I doing? I have no business being here.” Over and over that thought, with every wrong turn and mistaken identity. What a sad thought! I couldn’t pinpoint the origin of it, but it probably had roots in my mostly confined and solitary past over a few years. And now sticking my head out, landing clumsily in the middle of the public world that not only didn’t stop while I was “out sick”, it also didn’t slow down at all either. And that continued, irreverent, incessant flow of time in one direction only all of the sudden felt very real and a little unnerving too. But I walked on. It’d be a lie to say I felt any confidence at all then, taking in every type of person of every age and origin.And even though none of them looked truly happy to me, none of them had a life that I felt cheated by not having, I was still odd man out.  I started to wonder if I had real friends at all that I’d find. Maybe I had imagined them up in a fantasy of my mind, and I’d walk tirelessly never bumping into them because there was no them to bump into. But I walked on. I pretended some of those thoughts didn’t exist. Maybe more, I just didn’t take them very seriously. I’d feel the sun burning my shoulders and I’d affirm that more likely than not I’d find my friends, I’d engage in young adult behavior, and feel a little better about my place in reality.

After 45 minutes of circles and flags and strangers, I watched a really drunk boy hoisted up by his friends, being dragged with his lifeless converse trailing under him leaving shallow lines in the dirt, the unfamiliar sights were piling up, and even I started to feel like a stranger there. But then– something familiar. Emily’s ponytail. Someone. People. Friends. They existed, and I was not yet proven insane. In that moment those thoughts I had didn’t carry any weight at all. Whether I found my friends or not had nothing to do with belonging in all honesty. Separateness is just a construct of ego and I know that, but it can stab you anyway. I knew that afternoon I could’ve really used some friends. And there they were and there I was. I belonged. I knew those thoughts were shit. Time to keep on living. Time to have fun now. Time to participate in the onward direction of time, and  attach to some other thought that experience will most likely prove wrong.

Maybe I should’ve mentioned it earlier, but I’ve never really been a live music person. Which makes me feel incredibly lame mostly. Just like I’m also not really into The Lord of the Rings. True “outsider” feelings emerge in me when this is brought up in public, and I feel like there’s some joke I’m just not getting. What is there to say about it? To each his own. Anyway, at every live music event I’ve attended, I find myself gazing off lost in observational mode of the people enjoying the music, instead of intrinsically enjoying the music myself. I can’t help it. There’s always some woman on the borderline of being “too old to be there” on some drug that’s a little too young for her to be doing, and I can’t help but watch her, dance carelessly, body parts hanging out, not giving a shit about what etiquette she’s breaking. Then I at once sympathize for her but also want to be her, because she is losing herself in something enjoyable, and she’s alone, and I’m the creeper at the concert not dancing but staring wide-eyed and blinking very slowly. I dated one of those music junkie type of guys for two years. He had an impressive collection of bands that you never heard of on his ipod and was always discovering music years before it became popular. (I on the other hand got my music from Apple Product commercials) He flew all over the country to catch his favorite bands at different venues. Sometimes with friends and sometimes alone and it was this small gap between us because this passion he fell off his seat for was somewhere that I just didn’t fit. And this schism in us always interested me, because at concerts we’d share a joint and then even more I’d separate from the setting and lose myself in the detach-and-detect humanity mode. He was good about keeping me down to earth and assuring me that dancing like an idiot was fine and encouraged, and that no, that guy next to me was not about to die from sensory overload regardless of what his face and body movements suggested. But there was always some wall with me at those shindigs. I could never really figure it out. Ultimately the relationship ended, and I wondered how much, if any, this disconnect had to do with it. Maybe nothing at all. Maybe a whole lot.

It’s funny how discovering clarity leaves with you so much to know still. My goal this year has been to find clarity of any kind, certainty of any measure. Because both of these things lack hugely in my personal life and it wares on me daily. It’d be nice to make a decision and know it to be right, or know anything at all for that matter and trust it to be true. But even with this goal in the forefront of my consciousness, it has still been incredibly hard, and so far, I’m yet to find either. I’m guessing the more things I pursue where the end is uncertain and there are no guarantees will help me to eventually get there, or in the general ball park. On the bridge this morning, the unceasing rhythm of a road bump every 1.5 seconds, I glimpsed certainty. I glimpsed knowing something at all, and it felt very good. But I don’t know if it’s possible to exist in this dimension full-time. At least half of life seems to rely on not knowing but jumping off anyway. Maybe love, happiness, success, peace..are all the outcomes of great risk and great faith. All anyone can do is make their best bet and go for it. Maybe once we let go of knowing anything for sure, the way I walked in endless circles yesterday, the way those waves went in no direction this morning, is how we find the happy end, whether we knew we would or could or not.

Health, Happiness, Walking On, Jumping Off.

Colby's Apartment

Colby’s Apartment