As if on cue, North Carolina greeted the first day of September with a nip in the air, a clear blue sky, a slight angle on the sunlight and a few yellowing leaves vacating their seasonal homes. It is exactly as I remember it.

There are very very few people, places, concepts and/or things I love as much as I love Fall. I mean that. I don’t love chocolate as much as I love Fall, I don’t love members of my family as much as I love Fall, I don’t love puppies or kittens or any animal as much as I love Fall. And Fall just seems to make everything better. A roadtrip is suddenly a magical adventure full of colors and smells, a kayak trip is now a leisurely trip through an electric canvas… it’s the one time of year I become pathetic and incessantly romanticized about everything. Hell, I even named my cat Benjamin October. And this year I finally get to enjoy it to its fullest as I’m back in a town that has lush, leafy foliage! Hooray!

Anyway, I was sitting around in anticipation of the upcoming seasonal change and realized I was just compiling a list of things that I love. So, in the spirit of the global shifting energy (although you Aussie readers are going into a different type of pretty. Except the ones in Melbourne; you guys get every season every day.) I thought I’d revert back to childhood mode and do one of those cheesy elementary school poems where you write “[Noun] Is…” and then list everything the topic conjures for you. It’s kinda fun, actually.
So herewego.

Fall is…

~ Clear, freezing, moonlit nights so bright you can see your shadow.
~ Football games and marching bands.
~ Ignoring the caloric value of caramel apples and cotton candy
~ Indulging in a little Americana at the livestock, tractor pull, agriculture, and demolition derby demonstrations at the local fair.
~ Obligatory leaps into giant piles of leaves.
~ Wearing worn out plaid flannel shirts as jackets
(without intending a Grunge era tribute.)
~ Scarecrows stuffed with newspaper sitting on front doorsteps.
~ The orange evening sun cutting across fields of late-season harvest crops and bales of hay.
~ Pumpkin, cinnamon and apple spice-flavored everything.
~ Camping trips that require long-johns, clean socks, and knit caps (what Southerners call “toboggans” for no known reason) before sliding into sleeping bags.
(Things I love about camping trips could take up another whole post but I do adore fire-toasted Brown Bears - cinnamon toast roasted on a stick- and hot cocoa in the morning like nothing else.)
~ Honor-system pumpkin patch visits and the slimy, wet bottoms of chosen pumpkins.
~ Hearing ‘Thriller’ on the radio for two weeks at the end of October.
(Although this one kind of doesn’t apply this year.)
~ Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
~ Trampling lawns and avoiding unexpected terrorization while trick-or-treating.
(I went trick-or-treating well into high school without an ounce of shame. I cannot wait to take my daughter.)
~ Canned food drives.
~ Malcolm Blue Farm
~ Om by GAP
(The only thing by GAP I have and will wear. It was discontinued 10 years ago so I ordered a bunch on eBay. Love it.)
~ Eating Halloween candy past Thanksgiving.
~ Being brunette is trendy again.
~ Buying fresh new pencils, markers and notebooks for school and spending entirely too much time organizing them.
(I’m a giant nerd and continue to do this as recently as yesterday.)
~The return of sweaters and cute hats.
~ Horror movie marathons and swearing I won’t watch any of them.
(I always indulge in the classics, though.)
~ Volleyball season.
~ Anticipating new holiday season movies.
~ “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown”
~ Big, sprawling outdoor flea markets.
(My personal favorite is still the one in Athens, Ga.)
~ Dusters.
~ Youth soccer season
~ Visiting local graveyards.
(Not even on Halloween, they’re always creepier in autumn.)
~ The smell of campfires.
~ Snuggling and kissing under a blanket with someone special at bonfires, sporting events, or on the back porch.
~ Elementary school fund-raising Fall Festivals.
~ Crazy, house-wrecking college Halloween parties.
~ Rifling through old clothes to figure out what you still want and/or can still fit into.
~ Bluegrass and folk art festivals.
~ Girls dressed as skanks on Halloween.
(Say what you will about cheesy textbook slutty costumes, it’s the one time of year you’re allowed to let your inner freak fly. I’m all in favor of that.)
~ “30 Rock” is BAAAAACK!
~ Deeply inhaling the aroma of changing foliage while driving through the Appalachians.
(That one might be my favorite, actually.)

I’ve been invited to play in the Homecoming Alumnae Volleyball Game at my old high school this fall. I’m totally excited about the chance to play again as I haven’t played in yyyeeeaaars and, aside from being really pretty good at it, I absolutely loved it.

The problem is that, while I’m already significantly older than most of the other competitors simply because I graduated 8 years ago, it’s already decided that me and my class will be the oldest ones there. This is due to the fact that my class was the first to go through this particular high school, as it opened its doors our freshman year. So, instead of counting on the really old people like normal Alumni functions, the late-twentysomethings are the geezers here.

Now, I could sit around for the next six weeks being scared out of my mind to stand next to 20 year olds in Spandex shorts or I can decide to push myself a little harder and get in amazing shape by the end of October. Since the latter definitely seems more appealing in addition to being healthier all around, I’ll be doing that. And now my workouts won’t be driven by that abstract goal of “well-being”, but something completely selfish, superficial, and generally awesome.

I’m excited. Even if that means that the next month will basically be a montage not unlike the one from the last “Rocky” movie where he’s all old and trying to get back in the game.

Freshly heartbroken (and, incidentally, spiraling into a belligerent insanity in response) and struggling with typical early-20’s wanderlust, I went to Australia with the mentality that this would be a semester of reckless abandon. Flinging my inherent self-consciousness by the wayside, I plunged into the wild, adventurous [often foolish and some potentially dangerous] indulgences of hedonism I’d only previously fantasized about, free from the confines of social accountability. Don’t get me wrong, I spent a few days nerding out and visiting historic sites by my own volition but mostly I was interested in freeing some part of me that I thought - at the time - might have been the “real” me who’d been hidden under general insecurity. (Oh, to be in late-adolescence and to so believe in the pretentious myth of oneself…)

This whole mentality put a strange damper on the relationships I encountered, as I sort of convinced myself that all these temporary acquaintances were somehow not legitimate. I had no trouble making a general ass of myself in front of these people as they were only surface-level, stand-in friends with whom I would enjoy my time but never really forge any sort of bond with. This even included the small group of people I was working with as part of a sketch comedy troupe; while they were all amazing, colorful people, I was assured that there was nothing “real” going on, that we were all just working together for a common cause and any interest in each other was superficial for the sake of a productive work environment. While I felt a real fondness for many of them, I had already designated myself as an outsider who was easily replaceable and meant to portray only a caricature of a certain widely-mocked nationality. I assumed everyone else was doing the same. Perhaps my subconscious knew better because, after a while, I found myself becoming crippled with panic attacks before attending rehearsals, sitting on the staircase around the corner from our rehearsal theatre and trying desperately to convince myself that I was worthwhile, bright, humorous, and deserving of their company. Often I would wildly overcompensate by putting on a brash, arrogant, faux-wordliness air in which I would conduct my every maneuver, hoping this would throw everyone off the scent of my complete insecurity.

The weird thing about all of this is that, while this was most definitely the most mentally unstable, tragically misguided and destructive part of my many attempts at recovery since 2003, somehow some of these amazing people saw right through all of it and proudly called themselves my friend. While I was out making the greatest ass of myself imaginable, there were genuinely wonderful people who not only weren’t totally disgusted by my flagrant hypocrisy, my wild grandeur and my general self-centeredness, but actually invited me to be in their company. By the time I left the country that summer (or late-autumn, depending on which continent you’re on) I had acquired a handful of some of the best friends I have ever had (even now!) and was aching with the amount of time I’d wasted trying to keep their lifestyles and reality some sort of parallel universe or mere colorful backdrop to be used at my disposal.

It has been four years since I have seen most of them. I was scheduled to go back to Melbourne in late 2006 but, due to the general disorganization of the Australian Immigrations gang, I was stopped at LAX and sent back home. (Although I did have a lovely impromptu visit to Berkeley where I crashed with a never-before-met-in-person friend for a couple days and fell in love with the Bay area.) Shortly afterward, I became pregnant and was unable to use my plane ticket, much to my utter heartbreak.

Still, these people have continued to stay a part of my life and have shown more devotion and love to me than most of the friends I’ve had in my short life. One came to stay with me and my family over the holidays, a few keep in touch via email, Facebook and the occasional phone call, and a couple of my dearest girlfriends sent a fantastic care package when they found out I was expecting my daughter. One came to Canada with her band last summer but, gas prices being what they were, I simply could not afford to go up and see her. I still hear from many of them at least once monthly and they have become one of the aspects of my recovery that I am most grateful for. I’m not sure where I did something so right as to acquire these sorts of people into my life but I’m more than ecstatic that I did.

My heart hurts this time of year as it was during late June that I left Melbourne and saw this handful of dear friends last. (This pain only intensified after my failed attempt to return.) At least once every month I have a dream in which I am riding around Melbourne, on my way to visit friends, seeing places and the sorts of creative, artistic people I fell in love with while I was there. There’s still the wild dream that we’ll somehow be able to move there and build a life in a culture so much more laid-back than our own and even though my husband has expressed an interest in pursuing this dream, there simply hasn’t been an opportunity for us to make it a reality. (I have a feeling this dream won’t dissipate anytime soon.) My heart is always elated with the blessing of this present friendship but aching with the knowledge that it can’t be revisited on a personal basis any time soon. I hate that I can’t show these people the selfless love from me that they deserved when I was abroad and I loathe that there may never be a time in the next decade that I can afford to travel back and enjoy a leisurely, festive visit of “just hanging out.” The harsh reality of this set in a while ago, but it hasn’t started to weaken just yet.

Whatever the case, that place and these people are still with me and this is more than I’d hoped for when I first landed in Australia. Just little artifacts and this tiny bit of memory and joy are what I have for now, but that’s enough to make me more grateful than I am about almost everything I’ve ever experienced. And, of course, the hope of returning to all of it again.

It was too soon. They both knew it.

Panting, she sat back, feet tucked under her naked bottom, suddenly petrified with the idea that she was… well… being had. Again.

He’d said it as he entered her, two weeks after he’d first done so, four weeks after the first time she’d touched her lips to his.

She’d only heard those words uttered from two lovers before him. One was a teenage lover with whom she’d spent years pining over in a torrid series of imitation love affairs. The second was a chubby boy, a passing fling in the interim between serious relationships, who clung tightly to her in hidden moments and later went through the various stages of grief on her voicemail after she’d called it quits. There were two others from whom she’d longed to hear the words but left in their place memories of awkward, broken affection.

Neither of them had found themselves in a serious relationship in over a year. While he was quick to ask for her exclusive affection, she was hesitant at jumping into something so new and sudden, mainly due to her certainty of the affair’s inevitable demise when the two parted ways after their upcoming college graduation. Admittedly, she’d become cynical of the idea of love and resolved to pursuing a life of independence, free from the burdens and trappings that coincide with the absurdity of romantic bonds.

Still, as the momentary impact swept over her, she smiled in the darkness. Without so much as a half-minute’s hesitation, her hips resumed their undulations and she surrendered herself to the organic passion of this suddenly significant occasion.

Later, they lay breathless in the darkness, the lover’s dew still chilling on their entwined limbs. With trepidation wrapped around every word, he spoke softly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I hope I didn’t scare you.”

She propped herself on one elbow, positioning herself just a breath away from his lips. She smiled, ran a hand over his cheek and whispered, “There’s no need to apologize, sweetheart.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I love you, too.”