in defense of seasonal decor
image: Karolina Grabowska
When I was in my 20s, my Reckless Asshole years, I looked down on seasonal decorating. It was the purview of elementary school teachers (with those scalloped bulletin board borders) or Bored Straight White Midwestern Housewives (as I rudely thought of them, reducing an entire region to a one-dimensional stereotype). It was only for pathetic people; I was far too busy Having a Life to pay attention to something as inconsequential as the passage of time. (I said I was an asshole!)
Now I realize that was pretty ageist and sexist (and reductive). Of course it implies having lots of privilege—you clearly aren’t worried about housing, food, safety, etc. if you have time to decorate. (And yes, all the usual critiques of mindless consumerism, capitalism, and waste.) But seasonal decorating seems like a mostly feminine thing, or an older-lady thing, and I don’t want to shit on either of those. It’s part of America’s larger culture of sexism and belittling stereotypically feminine stuff in favor of stereotypically masculine stuff. (For example, dudes can play with model trains/cars and remote-controlled planes their whole lives, paint miniature figurines, and have a Man Cave, but the feminine equivalent of those things is somehow mock-worthy and inferior. Not to mention that gender roles are stupid and everyone should be allowed to like what they like, regardless of gender!)
image: Anna Tarazevich
Anyway, I say fuck it! Maybe it’s just because I’m getting older, but I’ve come to love Spooky Season and the chance to toss black gauzy fabric over everything. Black and white stripes, cute ghosties, spiderwebs, a DIY bat garland cut out of construction paper while I watch Netflix—I WANT IT ALL. I’ve always loved fall (summer can suck it), but my obsession has reached a new level. I guess I’m less afraid to be considered “basic” and would just rather drink the dang pumpkin spice latte than try to be cool. Spend late summer driving around to stores like Michaels in search of spooky decor I can put up two months early, even if it pisses my neighbors off? Sign me up! I guess this is what my life has become, but I’m not mad about it.
Is it pathetic? Maybe. My younger self would probably judge me and think I need to get a life. But I also know that even though I wasn’t super interested, I went to a lot of events in my 20s because I didn’t know how to say no, or I thought I was supposed to, or I was trying to impress someone. Now I’m better at boundaries and the whole “If it’s not a hell yes, it’s a no” thing. I protect my time, even if that time is just spent taking a nap or reading a cheesy murder mystery. I’m a little sad for my younger self—I didn’t really know who I was or how to stand up for myself and what I wanted. Maybe that’s just your 20s. In any case, as I continue dreading/anticipating turning 40, I’m glad I no longer give a shit. LET’S PUT UP SOME PUMPKINS!
P.S. There’s also something to be said for slowing down and embracing rituals and appreciating the seasons, whether that’s celebrating a solstice or eating something in season (shout out to the tomatoes in my backyard, who definitely know how to read and are reading this blog post). 👻