Falling leaves, falling rain

I have always been a sucker for fall. There is something about this time of year that stirs something new and subtle in me, yet calms me, all at the same time. I've never fully understood why, and I've never really questioned it. Chalk it up to having a birthday in September, being a nerd who loves to buy new school supplies, someone who gets a little too excited about preview week for prime time shows; I love fall.

There are two parts to my love for fall, and it is a direct reflection of my bi-coastal life. There is nothing more beautiful than autumn in New York, when the leaves change and the air gets crisp, and when you look at the hills they almost appear to be on fire with all the reds and oranges and yellows that exist. That doesn't happen here in Portland. Leaves here go from green to yellow to dead, and when someone sees a tree with a little bit of orange or red, they stand in awe of "all the color." Little do they know what a truly pathetic showing of color it really is. You can't blame them; if you have never seen the East Coast in the fall, I'm sure one tree with some red and orange leaves might look pretty. They don't even know that it pales in comparison.


That being said, even though there is a definite lack of color here in Oregon, I love, more than anything, waking up to the sound of rain. Ninety percent of the people I know here will tell me I am crazy, that they hate this time of year when sunny days become a rare occurrence and grey skies settle in. Apparently the fact that we have  rainy days for almost nine months out of each year should make me dread the start, make me cling to the very last rays of sun, willing summer to stay just a few days longer... but see, I already know how much it rains here. And I love Portland for it.

This morning I woke up and all I could hear was the rain hitting the leaves on the tree outside my window. I stretched, smiled, and lied there listening to it for a few minutes before I rolled out of bed. I am excited for next fall, when I'm in New York and get to see my first east coast fall in years. I'm excited to feel the crisp air and drink apple cider and see the hills on fire all around me. But I will miss Portland and the constant rain. I'll be trading my rain gear in for something a little more insulated and warm. I'm a bi-coastal child; my parents have given me a deep appreciation for their respective sides of the country, and I feel pretty thankful for that.

So for now, I will continue to love every morning soundtrack I have of raindrops falling on leaves, and look forward to next year's backdrop of colors galore.

A twenty-six year old baby

I have been sick in bed for the last two and a half days. The reason for the "half" day is because I got up this morning, showered, dressed, went to work, all by 7:15am (on a Sunday, no less!) only to be told by the Commander that I should really go home and get back in bed. I'm not complaining, mind you, I was just really hoping that by going through the motions of getting ready like a healthy person would, I might then start to feel healthy once I got to work. Alas, I am back in my pjs, snuggled in my bed with my amazingly soft fleece Blazers blanket (courtesy of my wonderful roommate for my recent birthday) and once again wishing I had my mom here to take care of me.

There is something about having a mom around that puts me at ease. No matter what the situation, she does it better. I haven't really taken anything since I've been sick, with the exception of some TheraFlu, and even if she were here, there isn't much else she would give me, aside from maybe some zinc couscous in broth. If I made myself couscous and I got myself some zinc, I probably wouldn't feel any better. But if my mom got me zinc and couscous, I bet it would make a world of difference.

As a kid I never got much candy. Easter baskets were the exception, really, because even on Halloween we only handed out Tootsie Rolls, and we didn't go trick-or-treating. But whenever I had a sore throat, it was almost a guarantee that sooner or later I would get a lollipop. I remembered this around 4am this morning when I woke up with a burning throat. The first thing that popped into my head was "I wonder if we have any lollipops in the house." Again, I don't know if it would have helped any, but I bet if my mom had given me one, my throat would have felt fifty times better.

Last week I turned twenty-six. This is a definitive age, I have decided. Twenty-six means that I am no longer in my early twenties. I have officially moved to the "mid-to late-twenties" category. This is decidedly older than someone in their early twenties. In my head, at twenty-six I have officially become an adult. I'm supposed to be older, mature, responsible. I'm a grown up. And yet right now, in my bed, stuffy nose and sore throat, all this grown up really wants is her mom. And I don't think that is something a sick-me will ever really grow out of.