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Does your heart rate go up a tick when you think about pumpkins and apple picking? Do your hands become a bit shaky when you think about pumpkin spice… anything? Do you yearn for a temperature in which you can pull off an infinity scarf without soaking it in sweat? If you answered ‘yes’ to just one of these inquiries, then this column is for you, fellow fallie.
Before you come at me with tales of adoration for insufferable heat, long days outdoors, lemonade stands and other such sunny-season activities, please know that I am attempting to take nothing away from my summer-loving queens: long may you reign! This column, however, may not be for you. My stance is, for instance, a point of contention between my mother and partner who are both down right reptile-esque in their lust for UV10000. I love those delightful odd balls none the less, as I you, dear reader.
However, for the subsection of us that have been actively withering away since May, this column is for you, and the sliver of hope I have to offer via the currently-trending expression of “Augtober.” For some the name is a perversion of summer, for others, a sweat drenched purgatory that has been officially, by the people of the Tick-Tok, christened “Summerween.” Or so I’m told because I am an elder millennial and can not grasp this new technology.
Moving along. In years past I felt it tasteful to suppress my urges until September first. This year, be it my increasing age of intolerance or the unprecedented heat, or both, I found it necessary to start my transition into fall on August 1. To my credit the lab rats must have also felt the call because at just about that date I started to find Halloween-inspired goods at my local shopping haunts.
I started small, a bat patterned set of tea towels that would blend in with my normie decor, here. A cauldron to stick some monstera in, there. Discreet. Demure. But before I knew it there were hot pink ghosts, skulls, bats, and disco mirror encrusted witches galore in Dollar General, Michaels, Ross, The Gram! It was then that I got a pack of wax melts from Walmart in the scent of vanilla caramel spice – pumpkin spice was sold out, no doubt by another kindred fiend – that I began to transform. My resolve weakened under that sweet, sweet, autumnal aroma. Creep-tonite, if you will.
With the house aloft in fall-like fragrance, the swamper cranked to high and the curtains partially drawn I could almost believe it wasn’t 102 degrees outside–some people call that “magic.” I bought a fleece blanket with pumpkins on it. I adopted a black cat I named Osborne. I dragged out my bathroom with hot pink ghouls, a Betsey Johnson bath mat from Ross in soft pink with a black cat ogling me from it, and a banana leaf shower curtain pattern borrowed from the Beverly Hills Hotel, because: tres chic à petit budget. I lied to myself gratuitously that Autumn was indeed at my door, and no, I don’t speak French, it’s all part of the ruse.
These small favors have kept what marbles I have left intact, precarious but they are. I do love toiling away in my pumpkin, marigold and sunflower patches, ensuring their success come fall. Albeit the sweet relief of retiring to my sitting from a day well spent to the scent of pumpkin-y goodies, the cuddles of a black cat with literal overlapping fangs and a charming discofied bat in the corner really take the edge off this hellish interval.
Side note: Pumpkin spice isn’t basic, so quell your tongue. Pumpkins and most of the spice that they waller in are staples of Indigenous foodways. Hah! Thought you’d get away without a history lesson, did you?
