I’ve often said I hate fall. That’s not exactly true: I love the first part of fall, when the temperatures are reasonable and the colors are glorious. If that was immediately followed by spring, I’d be ecstatic.
But late fall leads into winter. It’s like when I was a teenager and my mother made liver and onions: No matter how good the rest of the meal was, I knew that sooner or later I’d have to deal with the bad part. (I learned to surround little bits of liver with a gob of mashed potatoes, and swallow without chewing. I could do nothing about the nauseating smell.)
In September I go into denial. By mid-October the days are just short enough for my seasonal effected disorder to kick in, so I have to force myself to start prepping for winter. But it’s also approaching the end of the year, and I go into panic about all the other things I was going to get done. For instance, the bushes I needed to trim as soon as it got warm in the spring looked like Mark Twain’s hair by the time I finally tackled them in October.
Being retired doesn’t change that a bit. People said I’d have more time when I retired. They lied.
But prepping started out well, because I was able to get the furnace running–which means it’s worked (eventually) for 47 years in a row! It’s been a good fifteen years since I had to buy a part, which is good, because I doubt they make parts for it anymore.
Every time I check on the cost of a new one I get chills.
Meanwhile, in addition to preparing for winter–which between the age of the house and my procrastination is a big deal–I’ve got all the other things I’m supposed to do. For instance, the part time hours I work at the full time job I retired from. There’s something fundamentally wrong with that concept.
Then there’s promotion. I hate promoting.
Most writers hate promoting. We feel like we’re selling ourselves, not our books.
I was taught that bragging is a mortal sin, right up there with stealing and not saying goodbye to the relatives at the end of Thanksgiving dinner. Every time I promote I feel like my Aunt Dorothy is going to walk all the way from Ohio and slap me up top the head. I’m not even comfortable when other people talk me up, although please do.
But first I need to clean the gutters, mow the lawn one last time and put the mower away, cover the air conditioner, put in new smoke alarm batteries, take the aluminum cans to recycling, get the oil changed, get tax stuff around … and oh yeah, probably check in with the family once in awhile.
At least we’re not doing the holidays again this year.
Wait … are we?