I was going to call this post: "I Fall for Fall" but I couldn't live with myself if I had, not to mention I would feel like I was writing a Kohl's commercial instead of a blog. ("Fall for Fall! Girls tights-- 30% off!") I never appreciated autumn until I'd graduated everything. All fall meant to me before then was another grueling school year was about to begin. I held my breath for a couple of weeks until the Jewish holidays would toss me a reprieve where I would trade a few unbearable days at school for a few unbearable days at synagogue. I did okay in school but I was definitely one of those people who was waiting for all sixteen years to just be over so I could start my life already. So much for living in the present moment.
Once I graduated college, I realized I had this clearly unnatural, insatiable appetite for foliage. I visually vacuum up every leaf. For weeks every year at this time, I drive well below school zone speed limits, prowling around neighborhoods near and far, stalking every tree in case it decides to turn colors. The best I can describe my emotional state while doing this, is to say it's probably how Stephen King would feel if he tried his hand at poetry. There's likely some place in each town I roam where I'm supposed to register so they can track my movements.
And it's not just the foliage. Of course I watch all of the Charlie Brown holiday specials-- even the "B" side ones that ride the coat tails of the classic episodes. (Granted, I usually end up nodding off several times during these "bonus" episodes. It typically goes like this: "Our forefathers zzzzzzzzzzz. Pilgrims zzzzzzzz. Miles Standizzzzzzzzz")
My husband just doesn't understand why I absolutely must watch each cartoon in its proper order when it's on TV. His favorite holiday tradition is telling me every year:
"You really don't have to see it when they put it on you know. We have the DVDs." Have you ever heard such insanity?
If it were left up to him, we would watch the Halloween special in March and the Thanksgiving special in July. How could I be with a man who doesn't know right from wrong?
He begrudgingly watches the Thanksgiving special with me. I also force him to partake in the delectable Charlie Brown Thanksgiving feast I've prepared to eat during the showing: Buttered toast, jelly beans, ice cream sundaes, popcorn and pretzel sticks. It's the least he can do after I've slaved for hours over a hot toaster, dumping snacks onto paper plates.
And my peculiarities don't stop with the Peanuts gang. Whenever I walk down the block, I wave to the trick-or-treater my neighbor has on display on her lawn. And naturally, I also go trick-or-treating. Sometimes I wear a costume. Sometimes I don't. Either way, it's equally ridiculous for different reasons.
My husband accompanies me, all decked out in his best "spouse who'd rather be anywhere in the world but here" costume. While I skip up to each door swinging my oversized pumpkin pail, my husband waits at the curb: The perfect compromise between "close enough to watch the spectacle unfold" and "far enough to avoid public humiliation by association." (Oh sure, but he has no problem sticking his hand in my bucket to take out my goodies as we walk... Let me rephrase that.)
My husband is the epitome of a supportive spouse. One who goes along when his head says: "I really don't want to do this" because his heart says: "How would I explain that my wife got killed because she strolled into a crack house alone at midnight in search of 'just one more piece of candy?'"