I wait all year for October to end. September leads to fall, and all my favorite things. Leaves, food, sweaters. October brings Halloween, quickly followed by November brings the best things. Turkey, pie, my birthday.
It’s silly, I know, but everyone does it. Everyone waits for the months to pass leading up to their birthday, holding onto that childish dream that birthdays bring something magical.
Nothing magical happens, though. Last year my birthday was on Thanksgiving Day. The last time that happened, I got a cheesecake and presents. When I turned 26, I got “Oh yeah, it’s your birthday.”
This year, I’ll be working. I try to be more realistic, telling my friends to just keep things low key. In the back of my head, though, I feel that immature dream creep up. I hope for a surprise (any kind will do) or an awesome gift.
I had no concept of money as a child. I didn’t understand where my gifts came from. Now, I don’t make a list of what I want, not even for Christmas because I know that’s not what matters.
September is almost over now. This month as flown by, as it seems to do when you’re not in school. Instead it brings hints of fall; the pumpkin treats start appearing in stores, people start selling cider, the apple orchards and pumpkin patches and corn mazes open for visitors. September sets the pace for october, which I view as the real beginning of fall.
At this rate, October will go quickly, abruptly ending with a Halloween that I’m not prepared for.
Once November starts, I’ll feel a giddiness I can’t control. I’ll impatiently wait for my birthday, but I know when it arrives it won’t be exciting. It’ll be Saturday, and I’ll be working. Work will drag on, I’m sure, then the evening with my friends will go too fast. Sunday morning I’ll wake up, and it’ll be over. I’ll spend my day counting down the months until my next birthday.