Fences

I’ve never felt like I belonged in the world. I’ve never felt at home in my own skin, never quite felt like I fit in. During high school, it was for the usual teenage girl reasons: I wasn’t thin enough, pretty enough, or perky enough. In college, I was a creative writing major, complete with the requisite melancholy score that played in the background of even my happiest moments.


After a period of unemployment and then some time spent working in the financial planning industry, I went to graduate school to study international relations. It was immediately clear to me that I was out of my league among my classmates. Some of them had been missionaries overseas, some had done stints in the Peace Corps, and others had diplomats for parents. I must have gotten on the wrong bus; I was a novice compared to these seasoned veterans of international cultural and educational experiences.


My school was in Washington, DC, just a few metro stops away from the Pentagon. Going to evening classes, I saw members of the armed services on their commute home. I stared unabashedly: the uniforms, the meanings I imagined behind the ribbons, the air of competence, of confidence those men and women radiated. I wanted the same aura to surround me. As an added bonus, the military was someplace I was sure to fit in. Someplace where being part of a team would be drilled into my mind from the first frenzied moments of basic training.


Three years after I enlisted in the Air Force, I found myself on a six-month deployment at the largest military base in Iraq. I saw the time away as an opportunity to shed the couple of pounds I’d been trying to lose since those awkward high school years. My efforts were successful, thanks to a rigorous exercise routine at the base’s well-appointed gym, and a nearly religious avoidance of sugar and starch. After a long day, while my brothers and sisters in arms rewarded themselves with French fries, fried rice, and chocolate cake, I would bypass the main entrée line and go directly to the salad bar, where I would fill a to-go container with mounds of iceberg lettuce, dry tuna, sliced cucumbers, bell peppers, olives, and carrots.


After a while, I began to wonder if the employees at the dining facility—mostly third country nationals from South and Central Asia, where, presumably, they had signed on for jobs in a war zone because they could make more money there than they could at home—thought I was snubbing them, turning my nose up at the food they had painstakingly prepared, refusing to partake of the kind of bounty some of their countrymen could probably only dream about. That certainly wasn’t my intention. Avoiding the corn, pasta, and warm biscuits wasn’t an insult to their cooking; it was my way of blocking temptation, even as those savory wonders called my name with their sweet, buttery aromas.


The male employees at the dining facility—I don’t think I ever saw a female—were friendly, outgoing, and eager to practice their English with the female service members. Even in the digital age, where images from around the world are at our fingertips, it seemed that fair-skinned, blue-eyed, and blonde women were a bit of a visual draw for them. We were anomalies. Fascinatingly out of the ordinary. They saved us the best fruit: the sweetest, juiciest watermelon hearts; the ripest chunks of cantaloupe. After several weeks of watching me eat nothing but salad, and taking notice of what I put in it, one particular worker would fill a container, piling it high with my favorites, and set it aside for me, if he didn’t see me come in at the usual time.


In spite of all the training I’d been through, all the times when, indeed, I was part of a team, the military had not cured me of my chronic out-of-placeness. (In retrospect, I should have known I wasn’t cut out for the military; I look ridiculous in hats.) Feeling like an outsider in everything I’ve ever done has led me to retreat into myself. I don’t talk much. I avoid eye contact. In the service, I often walked with my head down, and my eyes attuned upward only so I didn’t miss a passing officer and fail to salute. I worry that people mistake my shyness and introversion for coldness. For standoffishness, or—worse—for arrogance. Nothing could be further from the truth. I want to be cordial. I want to be friendly and outgoing. But I’m not. The burden of my perceived flaws causes me to close myself off from the world. If I can barely stand myself; how could anyone else possibly stomach me?


Despite my avoidance of most of the foods they toiled to prepare, the workers were always friendly and seemed happy to see me. Maybe it was my fair skin and blue eyes, but I like to think they somehow sensed that hiding underneath my scowl, buried behind my cold expression, was someone who could use a kind word and a smile. I was touched and grateful to receive both of these on the rare occasions when I braved the main food line to get broiled fish and steamed broccoli.


I started to wonder if the men at the dining facility had a nickname for me. Maybe it was Seinfeld-esque: instead of a "low-talker," I was a no-talker. Or, maybe they had dubbed me, simply, The Salad Girl.


When I wasn’t eating or exercising, I was working. In month after month of combat sorties, looking out the aircraft window at the country below me, I never grew accustomed to how stunningly green the landscape was. Not all of it, of course, but parts of Iraq were far more verdant than I expected when, in my ignorance, I had departed the United States with images of nothing but tan, dry, lifeless earth as far as the eye could see. From the concrete jungle that was the base, I would never have guessed there was fertile soil all around me.


From my limited perspective on the ground, all that separated “us” from “them” were concrete, chain link, and barbed wire fences. Once airborne and ascending, however, those barriers got smaller and smaller, until the landscape struck me as unified and unfettered. Like an astronaut gazing back upon Earth, I was awed by how idyllic it looked. By how the dirt, the noise, the cacophony of seemingly insoluble conflicts disappeared, and what was left was simple terrain, free of political borders and cultural boundaries.


Now, safely back home, I regret that I wasn’t more friendly toward the men who prepared our food. I regret that I let my own self-consciousness and lifelong self-doubt close me off from other people. Most of all, I regret that the emotional fences I’ve erected in order to keep myself in are far more insurmountable obstacles than the physical ones anyone could ever build to keep others out.

YourSpace

—or—

I Wish I Didn’t Suck at Life Quite So Much


Before anyone accuses me of being anti-technology, or of downplaying the importance of the Internet for communication, let me preface this post by making it clear that while I am an admitted technology dinosaur, it’s not because I’m afraid of technology. It’s because I’m good at simple things: writing, making music, cooking, daydreaming, and making plans I’ll never follow through with. Regarding technology, beyond finding a close enough electrical outlet to plug my laptop’s charger into, I’m helpless. I don’t know the first thing about advanced connections, routers, networks, servers, motherboards, RAM, ROM, or any of the other scary words and acronyms that pepper the conversations of those more savvy than I (which is pretty much everyone).

That being said, there are a few stops along the Internet that I look forward to pulling into daily. I like keeping in touch with friends via email. When I was deployed to Iraq, I liked that news of home was never further away than my fingertips. Years ago, the men and women of the armed forces waited weeks to receive letters from their loved ones, and when they did, they’d be lucky if it hadn’t been steamed open, censored, and resealed. I like listening to the live music stream from my favorite independent radio station out of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (WYEP-FM, in case anyone’s curious…you’ll find a link in the list on the right.) I like looking for recipes, I like skimming the news headlines, I liked that I wrote entire term papers based on nothing but information I found online, and I love being able to buy pretty much anything from the comfort of my house at three in the morning.

I spend enough time twiddling around online that it wouldn’t be fair of me to judge anyone for the amount of time they devote to sites like MySpace, Facebook, Friendster, and the myriad others that surely exist, but which I have never heard of. I’m not willing to admit how many hours a week I spend glued to my favorite forum for all things low-carb. (And for those of you who know me, you know I usually have no problem admitting to some pretty wacky stuff, so that should give you some idea of just how much time we’re talking about here.)

A few years ago, when I had a job where I was in front of a computer for most of the day, I did my share of instant messaging and chatting. (My boss was very cool about it. As long as I got my work done, he didn’t mind. Although…there was one time [just one] that he had to gently remind me that while sending instant messages was fine, it was not actually the top priority for which he was paying my salary.) I understand completely that it’s difficult not to spend a lot of time on those personalized sites, particularly when you have your own computer and a decent amount of down time at work.

The thing is, I’m not sure these sites are everything they’re cracked up to be. To be fair, I admit I have accounts on all three of the sites I mentioned above. However, it’s been at least a month since I logged into Facebook, longer than that for MySpace, and I honestly couldn’t tell you how long it’s been since I did anything on Friendster. I keep getting emails that so-and-so, whom I haven’t seen or spoken to since elementary school, has requested me as a “friend” on Facebook.

I can’t deny that it’s interesting to see what people are up to—where they moved to, where they went to school, whether they’re married or have children. I also can’t deny that these friend requests have put me in touch with a handful of people I wish I’d gotten to know better years ago.

On the other hand, I wonder if we aren’t eroding the concept of "friendship" when we accept as “friends” people whom we weren’t really all that close to in junior high, let alone seventeen years later. It’s not that I have anything against any of these people. (There’s only one person on the planet against whom I hold a grudge, and she knows better than to try and be my “friend.”) In fact, some of these people were the “cool kids” in high school—or, at least, I thought so at the time. They were the people whom I wished I could be friends with. But it’s been a long time, and while I’m still not completely comfortable in my own skin, I have enough peace with myself that I no longer long for superficial relationships, and I don’t define myself by the clothing my friends wear, or by whether they partied Friday night or sat home with a good book. I didn’t go out of my way to fit in with them then. Why would I, now?

I hope I’m not coming off as arrogant or uppity. Like I said, I’ve heard from a few people whom I was genuinely happy to get back in touch with. The others, though…well, I don’t know how to say this delicately, so I’ll just say it. There are only so many hours in a day. I have a hard enough time staying in reasonable contact with the people I truly care about; I’m not sure how much I can spare for people who’ve resurfaced after twenty years (in some cases), and with whom I was never really chummy in the first place. It’s not that I dislike them, or that I ever had a falling out with any of them. I guess it’s simply like I said: there are only so many hours. We pick and choose how we spend our time, and some pursuits are more valuable to us than others. (This is one of the nicer things about growing up, I think. You have a firmer idea of what you like and what you don’t, and you get over feeling like you need to apologize for either of them.)

Another reason I’m not the biggest fan of these sites—although I’ve changed my mind about this recently (and will explain why in a minute)—is that I thought they give people a false sense of self-importance. Oooh, look how many friends I have! I *must* update my page, so that everyone knows where I am and what I’m doing at all times. Call me crazy; I just don’t think I’m that special. (Again, before I inadvertently offend anyone out there who’s addicted to these sites, I do understand the immediacy they can take on. I’m addicted to plenty of stuff on the web, so I’m not looking down on anyone who cannot tear themselves away. I’m merely explaining why, for the most part, these personal sites aren’t for me.)

I think it’s neat that people can post pictures, personalize the background music, all the graphics, and fill their pages with everything from personality quizzes to blogs, to messages from friends. In a way, it’s like email on crack. You post your news, your successes, your failures, your plans, pictures from your vacation to Jamaica, and a detailed account of your trip to the bathroom when you got home from dollar burrito night at the Mexican joint down the road. It’s a one-stop-shop where all your friends can get the play-by-play of every minute of the incomprehensibly awesome thing that is your life.

Okay, sorry…I started doing exactly what I said I wouldn’t do, which is get judgmental. ;-)

Back on track now.

I said that I recently changed my mind about the false sense of importance these sites risk instilling in some people. After giving it a respectable amount of thought, I realized that maybe people need these sites. Maybe they need to feel in control of something, even if it’s only a tiny section of cyberspace. I realized that some people live under a great deal of constraint—some that they put on themselves, but plenty that are more or less beyond their control. If you have a job, you’re automatically not in control of everything. You have a boss you’re accountable to (maybe more than one), and maybe you have clients you’re accountable to as well. Even if you’re your own boss, you still have constraints—time, money, customers, logistics. If you’re married, and most certainly if you have children, you’re constrained. (For a good cause, no question, but constrained nonetheless.) As for the constraints we place on ourselves, well, some of us make sure we spend time working out every week. Some of us make sure we get to church or temple every week. Some make sure we put away some money every month, or spend time volunteering somewhere. It’s hard to imagine anyone being 100% free to control every aspect of their life. And with that realization came the understanding that these personalized sites are the quickest and simplest way to exercise some degree of autonomy. Granted, you might not be able to customize and post everything you’d like to (what with those pesky pornography/obscenity laws and such), but you can get pretty close.

Furthermore, maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss the need to feel important now and then. Beyond the desire to “own” a little piece of cyberspace, maybe people need to exercise some autonomy over their very existence. Maybe they need their sites to remind themselves that they are more than some company’s employee, more than another cog in the machine, and yes, more than so-and-so’s wife, or so-and-so’s father. And if posting pictures and writing opinion pieces helps them do that, how could I possibly have anything against that?

And now, lest I leave you with the impression that I’ve fully embraced these sites, let me get into the final reason why I’m wary of spending too much time on these sites—or any time, as the case has been for the last several weeks. Frankly, there’s just too much potential for discovering depression-inducing facts about people with whom I would otherwise never have contact.

Case in point: I was on the phone with a friend the other day (a real friend, not one in name only on Facebook). She mentioned that she was checking out an old acquaintance’s page on one of these sites. (Okay, he was more than an acquaintance. He was the object of many an erotic fantasy for her, and plenty of non-erotic ones, too, that simply involved him falling head over heels in love with her, marrying her, and the two of them living happily ever after in the most blissful wedded bliss in the history of wedded bliss.) Anyway, this young man is now engaged to someone else, and my friend discovered that they registered at a nationwide department store for a china pattern that costs—get this—138 dollars per place setting. Maybe their friends all have money trees in their backyards, or maybe the fiancé’s family is loaded and will settle for nothing less than their daughter eating off of solid gold plates with diamond dust sparkling on the edges. (Okay, in all fairness, I have no idea what the pattern really is, but seriously, for $138 per setting, it had better have some diamonds in it. Or ivory from the tusks of an endangered breed of elephant. Call me crazy, but you can get cute “everyday” dishes from most discount stores for around $30, or a little more if you need more than four place settings. Yes, I’m talking about Corelle, the dishes of champions, the dishes everyone I grew up with had, because our parents all bought them in the mid-seventies because they were cheap, nearly indestructible [though not entirely], and microwave-safe, which would come in handy a few years later.)

Why did I bring up REDI (the Ridiculously Expensive Dishes Incident)? It’s just one example of how these personalized sites can affect the psyche of someone who’s not in the best frame of mind to see how old friends are getting along these days. (This particular situation affected my friend, not me, but you get the point.)

Before I go any further, let me offer a caveat: I’m thirty years old, unemployed, and living with my parents. (Go ahead, just call me George Costanza. Or, if you’ve never seen Seinfeld, then just call me pathetic; it’s equally effective.) I haven’t been “at the top of my game” in eight years. When I graduated from college, I was ambitious, hardworking, dedicated, and poised to take the world by storm. Too bad I didn’t do anything about this, and instead, let my life go ker-SPLAT. From the ensuing years of spotty employment at jobs I hated, and the quitting of not one but two master’s degree programs, I now resemble nothing so much as a wad of gum that someone spit onto the sidewalk ten years ago, and is now black and petrified from a decade of being stepped on, rained on, snowed on, skated over, biked over, and generally considered an eyesore to anyone who happens to notice it. (Okay, it’s not quite that bad. I’ve faced no hardships that can be likened to being rained on or skated over. All the feelings of inadequacy I have are the product of nothing but my own laziness, fear, and self-doubt. I have no one but myself to blame for my current position. Still, the fact that it was my own doing, and not someone else’s, that led me to this point doesn’t change the fact that at this moment, my life is less noteworthy than that blob of decade-old gum that’s become a permanent part of the concrete.)

When I talk about why these websites make me uncomfortable, I am, of course, basing things on my own feelings. That being said, I’d be surprised if there weren’t plenty of people out there like me, for whom MySpace and its ilk are just one more venue for other people to advertise how much less they suck at life than you do. Look, here are pics of me and my entourage in Puerto Vallarta! Here’s a picture of me receiving my PhD in microbiology; don’t I look great in the cap and gown? Here’s an excerpt from my novel that just won the National Book Award. (Copies available at fine bookstores everywhere!)

Okay, so maybe this, too, isn’t quite that bad. Obviously, I’m exaggerating. Most people just post pictures of themselves, their spouse, their kids, and family vacations. And I can’t even claim to be jealous. The fact is, I’m not. I do want to get married at some point, but I’m not interested in raising kids, and even if I was, at the moment, what with being unemployed and living with the folks, I can’t say I’m ready for either one of those.

I guess it boils down to the grass being greener. I don’t know why it should affect me so strongly that so-and-so moved to wherever and is doing whatever for a living. Some of my friends seem pretty impressed by what I’ve done in the military, but to me, most of it was no big deal. It sounded good to other people, but I knew better. Maybe it’s the same way for everyone else. Maybe everyone’s just trying to muddle through as best they can, wondering when they’re going to get their head screwed on straight, and each one of them has somebody they look to and think, Damn, now *that* is something.

The fact is, my life pales in comparison to some. My lack of direction and even a remote sense of certainty makes me feel threatened by other people’s accomplishments. I have no right to feel this way. I’ve put myself in the position I’m in. It’s not my friend the successful lawyer’s fault that my head is up my you-know-what. It’s not my friend the engineer’s fault that I can’t seem to figure out what the heck I want to do with myself. It’s not my friend the ex-cop’s fault that I got out of the military without a job lined up, and it’s not my friend the senior software designer’s fault that I’m so afraid of being unhappy that I’ve prevented myself from even being content. (Shout-out to you if you recognize yourself here! You’re probably the only four people who ever read this thing! Wheee!)

I’m pretty sure I’ll feel less overshadowed by other people once I get my act together. When I’m able to say, “My name is Amy, and for once, I’m earning my paycheck.” Or, “My name is Amy, and my first novel is being published next month.” Or even just, “My name is Amy, and my job isn’t the fulfillment of all my life’s hopes and dreams, but I’m back out here, among the living, being a productive member of society, and chipping away at something that will be a novel if I keep working hard, and I watch funny movies when I need cheering up, and a good, strong cup of coffee is one of my go-to pick-me-ups, and I love going for walks near pretty scenery, and a while back, I turned into a girly girl who likes shoes and perfume, and I no longer want to vomit when I see myself in a mirror, and I love fudge brownies and exotic trail mixes, and Danielle Steel books are my guilty pleasure, and I may not be where I’d like to be, but I’m moving in the right direction.”

Yeah…something like that.

But until that happens, I’ll stick to my favorite websites, where like-minded people preach to the choir, and I don’t have to read tidbits about people from my third grade class that make me feel worthless.


MySpace? No, thanks. It’s your space, and you can have it.










Disclaimer: MySpace, Facebook, and Friendster corporate-type people, please don’t sue me. I *did* acknowledge the good things about your sites, didn’t I? Let’s all play nice and leave our lawyers out of it, shall we? :D

The White Noise of Autumn

There’s something about autumn that makes me feel alive. I assume this puts me in the minority, though I have no statistics to back this up. I imagine most people cite spring as the time they feel renewed. They list every clichéd thing about the season traditionally known for rebirth and new beginnings: the weather warming up; flowers blooming; those first, intrepid blades of grass peeking out from soil that has just begun to thaw. I cannot ignore the simple beauty of those things; they’re a reminder that, no matter how long, dark, and difficult the winter, Nature herself has reawakened to claim the earth. These sensory changes that accompany the transition from cold to warmth, from long, bleak nights to slow, warm days, are perhaps even better markers of the cyclical nature of our existence than are diagonal lines slashed through calendar days, and the holidays and annual rituals we’ve created to root our place in time.

And yet, as cozy as all that sounds, I’ve always found that I awaken in the fall. For me, the novelty and simple beauty of a tiny pink bud venturing to open itself on the branch of a tree has never quite matched the sight of a street lined with trees whose red, yellow, and orange leaves create a Technicolor canopy unrivaled at any other time of year. I’ve always preferred bold, deep colors to washed-out pastels, so maybe that’s why the dark, insistent shades of fall speak to me more than the pinks, lavenders, and butter yellows of spring.

Even supermarkets offer a feast for the eyes in fall. Eye-catching displays of red and pink foil-wrapped candy at Valentine’s Day are trivial compared to bright orange pumpkins arranged casually on bales of yellow and brown straw. Sweet temptations covered in every shade of red and green for Christmas don’t hold a candle to impossibly shiny, perfectly formed Red Delicious apples, on display next to rich, sweet, buttery caramels, reminding shoppers to combine the two into a classic fall treat. Even the cheerful Easter displays, complete with pastel colored eggs, white bunnies with pink ears, and baskets padded with cellophane Easter grass in bright colors Mother Nature never intended, pale in comparison to rugged, weathered, wooden barrels filled with decorative gourds in astounding shapes and colors. (At least, they look rugged and weathered. No doubt they’re mass produced for just such a purpose, but commercialism is a topic for another time. Right now, I’m talking about autumn, and I will not be stopped!) Round, oblong, asymmetrical. Some with smooth, shiny skin, others rough and knobby. White, green, yellow, orange, sometimes all four. Some striped, some solid, some that look like Nature’s try at abstract painting.

As addictive as those colors and shapes are to my eyes, my love of autumn comes as much from the smells as from the sights. There’s a distinct change in the air at the border between September and October. The air starts getting cooler, and though the days are often still warm—sometimes hot, even—the nights are chilly. Not cold. Not uncomfortable. Just cool enough to warrant a fuzzy, boxy sweatshirt while you sit on your back porch and wrap your hands around a cup of spiced cider or mulled wine, look up at the stars and try to spot Orion, whose first appearances in the wee hours herald the colder weather and longer nights to come.

I don’t know if the temperature drop has anything to do with the uniquely invigorating smell in the autumn air, but I’ve always taken the two hand in hand. The distinct, smoky smell streaming from distant fireplaces is surely part of it, but I grew up in New York City, where very few homes had the luxury of a fireplace, so I doubt this is the sole ingredient. Maybe the chemical reactions taking place in the leaves themselves, as they shift from green to the array of other colors, is part of it. Maybe it even has something to do with where the earth is in its revolution around the sun when it’s autumn in the northern hemisphere. Maybe someone set out a few unfathomably enormous bowls of potpourri in this particular neighborhood of the solar system. Or maybe I just love so much the foods that are traditional this time of year, that I imagine their aromas into existence, even when they’re not being prepared right under my nose.

Whatever the pinches of this and dashes of that that blend so seamlessly into what I call the smell of October, they only come together this time of year. People who prefer spring might claim the warm sun on their face is what makes them feel renewed, or that birds singing as they fly from branch to branch remind them that there’s a world out there, and it’s much, much bigger than the daily grind. I don’t dispute that these things are at once empowering and humbling, and fill those who experience them with a clearer sense of purpose. For me, though, a long, slow, deep breath of October evening air is better than any thrill, any runner’s high, and any endorphin rush, for making me believe I can do it. Do what? Anything. Anything I dream, anything I want, anything I work for, because this is October, and this is when things happen.

Crisp is a word we use to describe everything from potato chips to starched laundry, from military salutes, to the final bars of a symphony, to the perfect landing in a gymnastics maneuver. Crisp lends itself easily to physical movement, sound, and the sensation of touch. Smells can be crisp, too, but not all of them. The smell of brownies baking is delicious, but not crisp. It’s warm, comforting, and even pacifying. Can you imagine anyone arguing about anything—except maybe who gets to lick the batter off the spoon—when there are brownies baking nearby, and the smell of rich, fudgy chocolate fills the air? (Perhaps we should have “brownie smell” pumped into the ventilation systems at the U.N. and in the Capitol Building. Considering all the hot air that already fills those places, what’s a little more, especially if it smells like dark chocolate? I’m not sure, but I may have just come up with the key to world peace.) The smell of the air after a rainstorm is muted. It’s not crisp, it’s quiet. It’s slow. Heavy and lethargic with the weight of the moisture still surrounding everything, as if the intensity of the entire world has been turned down. The smell of an old flame’s cologne or perfume is heady and deep, alive with memories of times both better and worse. It causes you to revisit those moments, to take your time and slowly swim through the milieu of people and places that inhabited that era. It’s anything but crisp. The smell of October, however, is crisp.

The smell of a chilly October evening is invigorating. It cuts right through you. Leaves you no time to wander through the past, taking a leisurely stroll along the paths you’ve forged, stopping to ponder sculptures of who you used to be. The smell of October allows for nothing but unbridled possibility. Maybe this rejuvenation is hard-wired in me. Maybe, somewhere deeply embedded in my DNA, is the knowledge that it’s harvest time, and this is when the world turns wonderful.

The smell of October has a unique ability to revive the spirits of those who spent the spring dreading the heat and humidity summer would bring as each day got warmer than the one before, and who spent the summer waiting for said heat and humidity to fade. For those of us who prefer cooler weather, the smell of October is to our psyches what the sights of spring are to others: a sign that we’ve made it through. That our time is upon us. That lemonade, bathing suits, and trips to the beach have given way to apple cider, sweaters, and cold Sunday mornings spent pajama-clad, lingering over newspapers and magazines.

I’ve always liked cold weather. Not the relentless, bone-chilling cold that makes your eyes water and leads you to question why humankind ever left the temperate zones, but the dry chill that wakes you up and makes you want to take a deep breath and go do something out of character. I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t related, in large part, to the poor body image that has plagued me throughout my life as a young woman in the western world. Cold weather means bulky sweaters and sensible shoes. Banished to a storage trunk are sleeveless tops, shorts, Capri pants, mini-dresses, and that most dreaded of the dreaded, the bathing suit. Exiled to the back of the closet are flimsy sandals and even flimsier flip-flops. (When, by the way, did the latter become acceptable footwear in public? Never, that’s when. If you’re in violation of this policy, stop. Yesterday.)

Cold weather means sheathing myself in layers, and blissfully covering every inch of arm and leg that was painfully exposed during summer. It also means a return to the classic fall clothing colors, which tend to flatter both my facial features and my body better than the bright, happy yellows, pinks, mint greens, and powder blues designers seem so fond of for the warmer months. October brings with it the dark, royal shades of burgundy, plum, hunter green, and burnt-orange, along with the black, charcoal gray, and navy blue every woman knows are slimming.

More important than my favorite type and color of clothing, however, fall brings with it my favorite foods. Despite the fact that pumpkin is available all year long—albeit only in cans in late winter, spring, and summer—very few people seem to realize this amazing ingredient can be used in things other than pumpkin pie. I love pumpkin pie, and would never dismiss such an integral part of American holiday cuisine, but it is far from the only delivery mechanism for this wonder food’s incredible taste, not to mention impressive amounts of fiber and vitamin A. Fall in general, and Thanksgiving, in particular, are when pumpkin recipes appear in magazines, on television, and in seasonal cookbooks. They range from the sweet—cookies, cheesecakes, and breads—to the savory—pureed in soups, mashed with sweet potatoes, and roasted with root vegetables. I have never understood why so few people take advantage of this amazing orange squash during the rest of the year. Perhaps people don’t realize it’s available in a form that doesn’t require you to buy one, lug it home, cut it open—which is a workout—scoop out the seeds, and then first cut it up or roast it. At that rate, I can’t blame them for steering clear most of the year, but canned pumpkin is a true gem.

Pumpkin is, of course, only the beginning. There’s a whole world of other ingredients that, like pumpkin, are available year-round, but seem to get their due only around the fall and winter holidays. Cinnamon, clove, ginger, and nutmeg can be found in supermarket spice aisles all year long, but are sadly underappreciated until it’s time for apple crisps and pumpkin pies. These spices create an autumn smell that is entirely different from—but no less invigorating than—the smell of October.

Fall has unique sights, smells, and tastes. Last, but certainly not least, are its sounds. Breezes blow throughout the year, but only in fall do they rustle leaves that are beginning to dry out, creating that scratchy sound that can only be described as muted maracas in the music fueling the dance between the air and the trees. Only in fall can you hear the crackling and crunching underfoot of leaves that, having finished their summer performance, fell to the ground in a final curtain call. Only in fall do the dried leaves skip across sidewalks and streets, making a sandpapery sound that is staccato, precise, and, of course, crisp. On a clear fall night, you can see the three stars that make up the unmistakable belt of Orion, the hunter, and Canis Major, his dog, identifiable by Sirius, the brightest star in the winter sky. There are times when it’s so dark and so quiet you swear you can hear the stars twinkling.

This is the quiet symphony that underpins the season. The miracle that gets overlooked because of its ubiquity, like the scraping of snow shovels against the ground in winter, like the grinding of lawnmower motors in spring, and like the cheerful, major-key-toned bells of ice cream trucks in summer. The soundtracks of other seasons accompany their own sights, smells, and tastes, and they’re all mesmerizing in their own ways. But until the very last leaf has fallen, and ice turns the bare tree branches into a crystalline dream world, I’ll sit out back in my cable knit sweater, with my hands wrapped around a warm mug of mulled apple cider, with my head tipped back to spot the constellations, while I take deep, generous breaths of the spicy, smoky fall air and listen to the white noise of autumn.