Birth In Autumn


Finally, it’s Autumn. I know what you’re thinking, another white girl writing a blog post about how much she loves Autumn? Groundbreaking. As I grow older, I find it hard not to romanticise the seasons. When I was younger I found it so totally uncool to talk about the weather or anything that didn’t sound so desperately rehearsed and hopelessly profound. Now, after squirming through years as an anxious mess I have begun to thrive on the little things; like the way someone smells when they come in from the cold outside or how it’s impossible to stay angry at a person when the tip of their nose is cherry red. My true identity has started to trickle through my veins to reveal itself as a ninety-year-old grandma in the body of a woman. I think it’s kind of cool to be twentysomething grandma now though? I’m pretty sure I’ve seen Buzzfeed articles along these lines shared on the graveyard that is my Facebook feed by people I haven’t spoken to since school. I’m all for people to stop criticising introverts and applauding natural extroverts anyway. Some people just want to stay inside and not have severe regrets whilst sandwiched between sweaty bodies in a shitty nightclub okay? Feeding your obsessive film addiction in your slippers, at home, on a Friday night, is cool now. While I do resent having to leave my warm bed to get slapped in the face by icy winds just as much as the next person, Autumn is my favourite. I love the way it smells, the way it bites your skin at the end of Summer, before plunging you in. I was born in Autumn and I will die in Autumn, choking on a marshmallow the size of an iceberg, swimming in my fifth hot chocolate of the day.

In the colder seasons, I can justify my guilty pleasures. I can endlessly procrastinate everything I have to do to create secret seasonal Pinterest boards that don’t adhere to my usual Pinterest “aesthetic”. I can rationalise the ridiculous amount of potatoes I eat, pour gravy over everything and give in to my insatiable sweet tooth because it’s almost Winter and I need to be warm. It’s alright because any weight I put on is going to be shielded by layers of faux fur and most importantly, it’s 2017 so being thin is no longer synonymous with being beautiful or successful. Cold weather is the perfect excuse to be more antisocial than I already am. Why would I go outside and let my shitty circulation give myself frostbite when I could be inside, soaking up the warmth, in a room glowing with fairy lights watching the Halloween classics? For anyone interested, these are: The Addams Family (the ones that star Anjelica Huston because she is a goddamn goddess), Hocus Pocus, Beetlejuice, Edward Scissorhands, Sleepy Hollow (basically anything Tim Burton has touched), Casper, Ghostbusters, The Craft, The Witches, Carrie, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, The Little Vampire, The Shining, all the Harry Potter films and anything scary if that’s your flavour but personally I can’t handle horror).

In a perfect world, I could embrace Halloween eagerly with open arms. My October would be spent creating an unnecessarily extravagant outfit and the night would be spent gorging on a medieval banquet in an old, crumbling castle in the middle of nowhere surrounded by people that tolerate me for long periods of time. While I get mildly excited to dress up and leave the house dripping with blood, the reality is, I hate going to clubs or parties that don’t involve food and there aren’t really any other places you can rock up to dressed as a corpse bride in the middle of London. So, until I have the disposable money to throw a truly decadent banquet in a terrifying castle, I’ll probably stay at home and serve my own miniature Halloween feast, however badly burnt it turns out. I always feel more theatrical towards the end of the year, as you can probably tell. Spring and Summer are all about being natural, sunkissed, covered in freckles, eating fresh food and feeling the sea against your skin. Autumn and Winter are about mystery, ballets, pantomimes, hiding what is underneath and most importantly, dressing like a New York divorcee. Every year I attempt to channel the look of a powerful woman severing the marital ties between her and her scoundrel of a husband wearing every dollar of his money against her skin, whilst being an inherently weaker person on a budget. I prepare my Winter wardrobe all year round. If I see a pair of black elbow-length velvet gloves in a charity shop window in the height of Summer, I buy them without hesitation. Structured beret’s, faux fur stoles, faux fur coats, faux fur Cossack hats, faux leather skirts and red lipstick the colour of fresh blood. For me, it’s all about being over the top dramatic and most importantly, keeping my body temperature as high as humanly possible. My boyfriend playfully refers to me as Fee Fee La Floof during the months where I evolve into a walking, talking, pom-pom instead of the faux Femme Fatale I desire to become. As I continue my hermit-like existence in style, the only thing I can really hope for is a white Christmas that never seems to come.

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