Sadtember

And then comes sadness…

The summer is almost over.

And then comes the month that starts to change everything. Sadtember.

I always take a roll in the doldrums after labour Day. I just love summer. I love the sun beating me up on a daily basis. And its partner in crime, the heat, that coaxes the moisture out of my cells, gives me horrible hair days and sets me up for slaking that beer thirst.

Then Labour Day. Depression. People around often ask, "Hey Paul, are you on your period? You go, girl!"

Donald Trump had it right in the debate. I get irritable in the Winter. All that bleeding.

No. I suffer from SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder, as psychologists call it.

Or in my parlance, FUCK! Winter is coming soon.

Winter is all about being reminded that time is running out. Each day is shorter, the sun going up and down like a yoyo, dark, light, suddenly dark just before you slip on that patch of ice. Days whip by like not-in-service TTC buses.

The summer always seems endless, as if the world is stuck in some relaxed gear with cruise control on. That's great, because cruise control saves gas.

They're not called the lazy, hazy days of summer for nothing. Part of my challenge is confining those lazy days to ONLY the summer. I'm very good at being lazy while it's snowing too. Just ask my snow shovel.

There's a reason violent crime goes way up in the nice summer months. More people are out enjoying themselves and they bring their guns with them. It's lovely to see. Conversely, suicide rates go way down. I figure more of these kinds of people are shot in violent crimes in the summer, and let's face it, that looks more respectable on the death certificate.

One thing I love about the summer is I don't have to make lists of any kind. Except the list I refer to so I can replenish my meat and beer.

When Sadtember roles around, I have to get started on three important lists. My daughter's birthday comes in November. This is hard for me. November is usually the month where I go hunting for the cave I want to crawl into for the winter. Instead I find myself at a Forever 21 store, hauling my 52-year-old carcass in between tweens who think makeup is a clothing item.

Then there's my all-time favourite – Xmas. I call it Xmas now because I make a gift list and then draw a big fat X through it. There's no Christ to be found near me, except for the thousand times I exclaim "Christ, you're out of that too?"

Finally there is my wife's bday. I love and cherish my wife and her birthday. And not just because she reads this blog, and will be studying this article in particular.

Shakespeare did not write, "Now is the summer holidays drinking coolers with ribs on the barby of our discontent" for a reason. Smart guy.

I am not a man for all seasons. God, please take the following months off my calendar:

Sadtember
Awfultober
Foevember
Decadentcember
Insaneuary
Febrileuary

The rest can stay.