I’m sitting in a new neighborhood bar, drinking a spicy porter and awaiting my Colorado lamb burger. It’s almost the end of the month, but the sun is burning down like it’s mid-summer, the temps are in the 80s, and we’re all walking around in short sleeves.
But autumn is definitely upon us. I can tell. The leaves are starting to turn, and I can taste woodsmoke in the air. The nights are getting successively cooler, morning is coming later, and the sunlight has an angle to it, as if it’s slowly turning to look in the other direction.
I can tell it’s autumn because I’m feeling vulnerable — the kind of vulnerable I only get this time of year. I recognized it the second it parked itself inside me, settling in all comfortable and familiar, like the puffy duvet I’ll be digging out of the closet any day now. I know exactly where it comes from, why it’s here, and how long it should last.
Summer was thrilling — lots of travel, late summer nights out with the boys, some fun dates and other memorable rendezvous, and lots and lots of extra time with Simone. I made the most of the joys and wonders that my favorite season has to offer. And I made good on my intention to date without judgment or expectation; to just enjoy dates for what they are and to be present in the moment. I resisted over-thinking or maintaining any sort of internal agenda or purpose, keeping my heart and mind open to possibilities but not expecting anything.
I have every intention of continuing in that direction. But this time of year always makes me girlfriendy. It’s a lethal combination: the holidays (Jewish), the weather (chilly), my birthday (October), and the new school year (Simone’s).
The girl started fifth grade last month. When we got divorced, Simone was still in preschool. Nothing demonstrates the bewildering march of time like the relentless advancement of your child’s development. I experience growing older in small increments, where little hints of aging sneak their way into my consciousness, but don’t generally manifest themselves into anything overwhelming. I’m the age I always was.
But Simone seems to grow in chunks, bounding from milestone to milestone, suddenly appearing older and taller. She got all lanky like a string bean this summer, and the start of a new grade is a smack in the face from the universe, reminding you that your kid is making steady progress toward adulthood. It’s heartbreaking and heartening, and, as a single parent, it’s also a big reminder of how long I’ve been managing this relationship without any backup. For me, there’s a sense of satisfaction about how well I’ve done so far and how close we’ve become as our little unit, but it’s wrapped up in a gentle sense of loss.
This time of year on the Jewish calendar is one for reflecting and atoning; for looking back on the previous year, for correcting mistakes (I asked the few people I’d hurt for forgiveness — if I missed you, please let me know so I can make it right...um...via email would be best), for giving thought to how to make the world (and one’s own life) brighter in the year to come. It’s a time of both joy and rumination, and it’s an exponentially better experience when you have someone close who knows you well enough to tell you when you’re being too hard on yourself or to hold your feet to the fire. Every year, as we approach the High Holy Days, I wonder if I’ll have a companion to share them with the next go-around. It’s an involuntary thought, but not an obsessive one. (Please understand that time with Simone is a special part of the holidays, but that’s not what I’m talking about.)
For me, summer is all about the fun, easy, late-night dates — cocktails on a patio and long walks under starlit skies; bike rides and picnics, outdoor concerts. But I’m a big fan of the all-morning lounge and indolent, pajamas/couch/movie time, and it’s been two full winters since I’ve had one of those all-day snuggles. Two. Full. Winters. Shit, I’d take one of those days in the perfect blue-sky summer, if the opportunity presented itself. But there’s always some low-level guilt about staying inside all day unless the weather is less than stellar. So as the potential for cool and cloudy days grows, I can only wonder if someone will be wrapped up under the comforter with me, watching the snow collect on the windowsill.
And my birthday approaches. It’s not a momentous one, or anything worth noting. In fact, for the first time I can remember, I’m not thinking in terms of festivities. Of course I’ll appreciate the well-wishes and (hopefully) birthday shots, but it’s not like previous years, where I gradually got excited about celebrating with Simone and my gracious and lovable group of friends. This is the first time in my life when, in my mind, my birthday merely signifies the fact that I’m another year older, and nothing more. If anything, it’s a reminder of what I haven’t yet accomplished.
But I’m not blue. I’m not lonely or unhappy or unfulfilled. This is not a time of paralyzing woe or a deep sense of loss. Autumn brings a softer sense of melancholy.
I’m vulnerable to the desire for that one right woman, with whom the journey into the cooler months of the year becomes something to look forward to, and to the intimacy that only sweet infatuation combined with a deeper connection can bring.
Fortunately, not only am I aware of how I feel, I actually know where it’s coming from and understand its time-limited nature. Once my birthday passes, and autumn matures into more than just a harbinger of winter, coming into her own as cool and crisp and beautiful in her own right; when I move out of my quietly forlorn heartache over the loss of summer and the passing of another year, the yearning will return to appropriate levels. This self-knowledge allows me to look at my vulnerability from the outside, to honor it, but not to let it rule the decisions I make.
As my cousin AJ once said, “They’re just feelings.” And feelings are transient; little vagrants that come and stay for awhile but are endlessly supplanted by new ones. They come, they go, and new feelings take their place. They’re powerful, but evanescent. We can learn from them, but they don’t have to govern us.
I haven’t forgotten that looking for love isn’t going to bring her to me, and that making the most of the single life — the life I have — is what allows me to be open to whatever comes next. I’ll continue to enjoy the simple pleasures of a good date, of time spent with someone I like, and I’ll let this momentary vulnerability add some sweetness to those experiences.
And then...
Well, and then I’ll order another pint of porter, and relish its hearty autumn flavor.
Yet another excellent article, Eric. I know exactly what you mean, too. This time of year always makes me feel my "singleness" more than ever. With holidays, my birthday (turning 40 this one - ugh), and the perfect snuggle weather all within the coming months, it's hard to be okay with just being me sometimes.
Posted by: Apps 55753818692 1141698303 21628f05a68d08541ea0ce764523dce9 | September 27, 2010 at 06:25 PM
I enjoy your writing and share that melancholy feeling about September. But now that October is almost here, I'm starting to get over it.
The CNN piece was great - though the hosts couldn't have been more offensive about the topic, could they?
Anyway, keep up the good work.
Posted by: Jay Palter | September 27, 2010 at 11:32 PM
Hey Eric,
How are you? I totally related to this post. I had a birthday in September, and I always feel a bit of panic at the end of summer...not wanting winter to arrive... plus I had this big challenging emotional move last week... got through it but...UGH! Here's my post about it:
http://italiandreams.wordpress.com/2010/10/06/anatomy-of-a-move/
Take care!
Posted by: Chandi | October 06, 2010 at 08:58 PM