An Ode to September

*Warning: Don't let the title fool you. This isn't an actual ode, because I'm a terrible poet and wouldn't dream of inflicting my poor attempts on you. I'm an asshole, not a fucking asshole.

September is a weird time of the year for me. It has been for as long as I can remember. For most, it marks the end of the summer months and heralds the beginning of autumn; the air picks up a certain crisp chill, and the leaves turn from their normal verdant into vibrant shades of orange, yellow and brown. And of course, I can't fail to mention the fall scents:  decaying leaves and fucking pumpkin spice everything. I'm sure all the white girls are rejoicing as they slip on their uugs and make their way to the nearest Starbucks for a steaming cup of pumpkin spice vomit.

When you see these everywhere, it's fall.

For me, September has always marked the beginning of an onslaught of ironies. I find myself anticipating it with a surge of excitement, but also a deep seated dread. There's joy that comes from watching the beautiful colors erupt from the trees, and sadness because the warm, carefree summer months of my youth are gone forever. And of course, the fall means that winter is right around the corner.

Yes...

September is also the month of my birth, and thus marks the beginning of the end of another year of my life. As time goes by, I tend to stress out more and more about my birthday. Not because I'm inching closer to the grave; I tend towards the philosophical when it comes to aging and death, and try to look at it as a journey rather than a frightening cessation of my earthly existence.

"Keep telling yourself that..."

Rather, the thing that stresses me out are wasted time and missed opportunities, of which I'm sure there are countless. As my birthday draws near, I can't help but reflect on the past year, on my accomplishments. Or lack of accomplishments as the case may be, because I haven't done a damn thing that would warrant celebration. Just more of the same: struggle to pay the rent and bills, get enough food in my stomach, and dodge the student loans, which are more persistent than Pepe Le Pew on the trail for pussy.

Pepe and his pussy...cat. Jesus, that's just creepy as hell.

Now that September is here, I find myself contending with the conflicting sensations of despair and determination, agony and elation. I'll be 34 this year, which is pushing me firmly into the middle age category. That's frightening to me; my teens and twenties are firmly behind me now, and I can safely be referred to as a thirty-something. Gray hairs have begun to creep into my beard like weeds, and I'm certain that if I hadn't started shaving my head years ago, I'd be going bald now. At this point, people my age are supposed to be firmly entrenched in careers and families; I'm still working low paying jobs and I can't remember the last time I wasn't single as fuck. Both my younger and older brothers have families of their own, complete with children. Me, I haven't been on a date since I entered my 30's. 

BUT, humiliating and depressing facts aside, I also can't help but get excited about September. After all, it's my birthday! Sure, instead of presents and cake, I get gray hair and old age, but it's still my birthday. And let's not forget that a new year means the opportunity to do better than last year. It's the chance to set down some goals and possibly work on those goals. Hell, maybe even complete a few of them. 

In short, it's a beginning of sorts. I just hope it isn't the beginning of a mid-life crisis.

I certainly don't feel any older than I did since last year, or the year before that. The fact is, I have to remind myself that I'm not in my twenties sometimes. It doesn't hit home until I witness something that firmly slaps me in the face and sternly remarks, "You aren't a kid anymore. Deal with it." 

For example, a few weeks ago, I was sitting on the bus, headed home after lollygagging downtown. Sitting across from me were a small group of teens. I was struck with just how much time has passed since I was in high school. There was a certain youthful exuberance about them; their every motion seemed to jolt with a hidden electricity, as if sitting still was impossible for them. It was refreshing to see, and also disappointing, because it wasn't until I was presented with a demonstration of that energy did I realize that I lacked much of it. 

That isn't to say that I'm hunched over on a walker, gasping for air because I took five steps. But I can recall, long ago, moving and reacting to stimuli in the same manner. Now, unless I'm in the grip of an emotional response, I can't seem to muster that same level of energy. High school was 16 years ago, but it seems much longer.