In 2019, the world witnessed the earliest release of the pumpkin spice latte. Some were shocked. Some blamed capitalism. Some poked fun at the people flocking to a hot, frothy beverage in August, while some happily marked August 28 on their calendars. And yes, while I’m sure there are a lot of people who truly do love pumpkin spice lattes, I think perhaps what we really love is what a pumpkin spice latte represents: mother fucking fall, y’all.
While yes, the summer sentiments of longer days, darker tans, wavier hair, and colder beer still remain true, lest we forget summer is also a time of stickier skin, clingier clothes, angrier bugs, and hotter cars, houses, and pavement. And that’s not to say the bad outweighs the good June through August. It typically does not. But once summer begins to pass and fall comes knocking, I think it’s pretty safe to say we welcome the change, and when I say, “we,” I mean the ladies.
See, women don’t love fall because of pumpkin spice lattes or apple picking with the kiddos. No, we love fall because it’s that time of year when we feel the most relaxed; the most like ourselves. Sure, there’s still work and chores and bills and homework and all the other mundane yet sometimes erratic things that come up all year long, but aside from the fall TV lineup, there’s not a lot new going on.
Fall is an annual release and I celebrate it just like I celebrate that extra blanket and the dulcet tones of Jim Nance lulling me to sleep on the couch every Sunday. Fall is also a time when we finally lower our expectations – for ourselves and for everyone else – providing some much needed absolution we don’t readily lend to one another the rest of the year… I see you read the text I sent two days ago but still haven’t responded. I’ll just assume your couch ate you too.
We’ve also completed our three-month commitment to routine waxes and pedicures. We’ve hung up our swimsuits. The beach towels have all been tucked away. From now on it’s three-month-old razors coupled with leggings unapologetically worn as pants and unreasonably oversized sweatshirts. Ma’am,are you wearing a bra under that hoodie? That’s none of your concern.
Our days of sucking it in are finished. Dead. We’re through pulling up our pants to accommodate our cumbersome guts, and our uneasiness about your potential appraisal of our lapping bellies has ended. It’s extra-large sweater season now, sweetheart. I’m hiding four bags of Reese’s Pumpkins under this thing and you had no idea.
And not only are we in a state of bodily bliss, we’re also entering a time of very few commitments. No holidays, cook-outs, pool parties, or reunions. Only tailgates, impromptu bonfires, and lazy weekends doing pretty much whatever the hell we want. Maybe we’ll visit the pumpkin patch on Saturday. Maybe we’ll catch a movie. I hear there’s a good hayride we can check out next Sunday if it’s not raining. Or perhaps we’ll rob a bank. Who knows, man. It’s fall now, and I’m down for doing or not doing a damn thing.
Because once mid-November rolls around, so does our guilt and our fundamental need to make plans for the holidays to come. Fall may not end in the technical sense, but it’s over for us the second a relative asks who’s hosting Thanksgiving and whether someone should make white or brown gravy.
But those two months or so of leaf-changing, hoodie-wearing, pumpkin-carving, Oktoberfest-drinking happiness are why I’m perfectly fine with corporate America pushing up the start of fall with the release of the pumpkin spice latte even if the weather doesn’t immediately agree. Yes, Starbucks, please, offer me an overpriced coffee, and give me a little more time to indulge in the paradise that is fall, too. Thanks.
Title Track: “Season of the Witch,” Donovan. Listen here.
