September Is Our New Year

And there's a crisp, shart-pain magic in the air.

New Year’s Eve almost always falls flat.

Or at the very least, it falls short of any great expectations. It’s little more than a hype holiday where we’re encouraged to wear sequins (fine), drink too much (if you insist), and then wait for Uber surge pricing to fall (the worst). 

There's a strange pressure around New Year’s—even if we opt for a pyjama fondue night or a themed movie marathon.

We’re asked to reflect and set resolutions, then told to cannon-launch ourselves into the next calendar year “and smash it!”.

While we could do without the “new year, new you” mantras, any contemplative pause—pre-scheduled or not—is a good thing. And January is a trusty checkpoint.

But it’s no September. 

September is January’s cool, understated cousin. She’s encouraging, energetic, and filled with possibility. September asks for no sequins—unless we want to wear them to a party of our own design. 

September leaves behind summer’s directionless whimsy, bumper-to-bumper traffic, and procrastination headaches.

But she doesn’t rule with a forceful hand. September leaves it to us.

We can continue to stoke August’s dwindling flame with outdoor BBQs and sunkissed cat naps. Or we can put on a pumpkin patch tartan and march the fuck on.

September is the bottled-up butterflies from our back-to-school years. 

It’s the artfully selected debut outfit. 

The unknown of what’s to come.

And the fodder we’re about to gain.

As muscle memory dictates, September is our new year. And we can’t help but notice a palpable shift. It’s one part nervous shart pain, and another part hopeful innocence.

It’s an earnest chance to re-up or do things differently, without the formality. 

This September, I plan to grab a glass of champagne and a Dollarama sparkler and connect with my shameless, four-foot elementary self. 

It’s the first day of school and we’re wearing floral Dr. Martens and a boxy dress.

We are about to enter a stuffy portable plunked on an asphalt pad. As we walk up the makeshift pressure-treated wood staircase, we feel a churning excitement at the unknown. 

Opening the windowless steel door, we step inside. The classroom is new yet familiar. We don’t question it.

We have no idea what the future holds, but we’re eager to take our seats.

Time is on our side and we still get to be whoever we want. 

It’s only September.