Walking to the coffee house in the sunshine I was composing a post about upper butts and tight jeans. I’ve been working longer hours on my book project and most of my thoughtful thoughts are knitting themselves into sentences over there. Here at the blog I am writing about Donuts and Candy Bars. I’m not sure those posts were totally unrelated to tight jeans and upper butts, but at least I was sticking to the light froth theme of the blog this week.

Then I sat down and worked my inbox. My goal to keep it one screen deep is always within reach which feels like some sort of major accomplishment.

At the top of the list was a note from a friend that I clicked on with all the gusto I could muster. In my mind I was tearing it open to get to the good inside. He worried I was missing the fall and sent some pictures. That fucker.

All of my skinny jean hula hooping humor was gone at the glimpse of the majesty of the season.

Vermonters…this is the first time I haven’t earned that view with you. I was in Denver last winter laughing at people shivering in head to toe parkas in 30 degrees. My son didn’t wear a winter coat all year. I have found the cost to that luxury. I know the Aspens here gleam gold…the relative beauty of the peaks of the Rocky Mountains versus the lush green peaks of Vermont can be argued (and endlessly are at our house.) The difference is that I don’t feel that I earned all of that beauty with my suffering.

I remember it. I remember cresting the hills in my car and seeing barns and hay and pastures fringed by the tapestry of reds and oranges and how I felt full of awe. Like a physical feeling of awe and contentment. The feeling never got old, many times a day the views would unfold in front of me and wake up that same feeling. Then once a season my avid outdoor son would convince me to take a fall hike where I would cap off my whining and stumbling and desire to quit with a rest at the top of a (not so) high peak and feel my blood pumping in every fingertip and hair follicle. All the days I spent indoor in winter, all of the times I braced myself to slip on ice and climbed the dirty hills of snow to try to get to a parking meter had earned me this exact moment.

It was as if the land below me had summed up all of my suffering and balanced it out in an explosive equation of ecstasy.

Head outside you intrepid Vermonters and soak it in, the organic orgasmic oranges, the ravishing reds and the grateful golds. You have earned it.

I will sit my upper butt down and get back to emptying my inbox.

The following two tabs change content below.
Anna Rosenblum Palmer is a freelance writer based in Denver, CO. She writes about sex, parenting, cat pee, bi-polar disorder and the NFL; all things inextricably intertwined with her mental health. In her free time she teaches her boys creative swear words, seeks the last missing puzzle piece and thinks deeply about how she is not exercising. Her writing can be found on Babble, Parent.co, Great Moments in Parenting, Ravishly, Good Men Project, Sammiches and Psych Meds, Playpen, Crazy Good Parent, and YourTango. She also does a fair amount of navel gazing on her own blog at annarosenblumpalmer.com.

Latest posts by Anna Palmer (see all)