very September, I become convinced my life would improve dramatically if I owned a better coat.
Not therapy.
Not eight hours of sleep.
Not financial responsibility.
A coat.
Preferably one that makes me look like I have somewhere important to be.
Suddenly, I can see them.
Fall Me.
They read books instead of reviews of books.
They cook dinner on weeknights and somehow use fresh herbs before they liquefy in the refrigerator.
They own matching pajamas.
They have plans on Thursday.
Their home smells expensive.
And judging by the wardrobe, they have never once carried six grocery bags inside at the same time because making two trips would be admitting defeat.
They’re incredible.
They’re also completely fictional.
But every fall, I shop for them anyway.
And I couldn't help but wonder:
When did a change in temperature become grounds for a complete personality transplant?
Fall Has a Branding Problem
Or perhaps we do.
Summer doesn't demand much from us.
Go somewhere.
Drink something cold.
Wear less fabric.
By August, we're all sweaty enough that expectations have collapsed.
Then September arrives wearing loafers and suddenly everyone has ambitions.
We're entering our fall era.
We're getting organized.
We're reading again.
We're investing in "timeless pieces."
We're waking up earlier.
We're making soup.
Apparently we're all one cinnamon candle away from becoming the lead character in a beautifully lit movie about having your life together.
And the internet isn't helping.
Everyone else's fall appears to involve cashmere, farmers markets, and a kitchen suspiciously free of mail.
Mine mostly involves turning the heat on in the morning and regretting it by 2 p.m.
Reinvention Has Become a Shopping Category
This might be the part nobody wants to admit.
Becoming a "new person" usually involves buying quite a lot of things for them.
The new workout clothes for Fitness Me.
The planner for Organized Me.
The blazer for Successful Me.
The skincare for Glowing Me.
The cookware for Person Who Apparently Makes Risotto Now.
And, naturally, the boots.
Always the boots.
We don't just shop for things anymore.
We shop for identities.
Which is convenient, because identities are much easier to purchase than habits.
For $189, I can look exactly like someone who has their life together.
Actually having my life together appears to require considerably more administrative work.
I'll take the trousers.
You Probably Don't Need Another "Era"
I fear we've taken eras too far.
Everyone is always entering one.
Soft era.
Healing era.
Villain era.
Single era.
Domestic era.
Fitness era.
Quiet luxury era.
Apparently simply existing without a marketing strategy is no longer an option.
At some point, we started talking about ourselves like struggling fashion houses.
New direction.
New aesthetic.
New management.
Fall collection dropping soon.
But sometimes you aren't entering a new era.
You bought a brown sweater.
It's a nice sweater.
We can leave it there.
And Yet, the Fantasy Is Delicious
This is why reinvention keeps working on us.
The fantasy version of ourselves hasn't disappointed us yet.
Fall Me has never skipped the workout because Fall Me hasn't actually gone to one.
They haven't killed the houseplant.
They haven't spent $74 at Target despite going in for toothpaste.
They haven't canceled dinner because putting on real clothes suddenly felt like an unreasonable request.
They're perfect because they haven't had to live my life yet.
Real Me is considerably less cinematic.
Real Me has emails.
Real Me has laundry.
Real Me occasionally eats something over the kitchen sink because using a plate would create another task.
And perhaps that's why imagining a new version feels so seductive.
It's easier to fantasize about becoming someone else than admit that our actual lives are mostly made of Tuesdays.
The Before Picture Is Getting Exhausting
There is something slightly sinister about constantly treating ourselves as unfinished.
Every advertisement seems to begin with the same premise:
You, but better.
Better skin.
Better clothes.
Better body.
Better house.
Better habits.
Better morning.
Better life.
Apparently the current version is merely the rough draft.
And that's an excellent business model.
Because someone who believes they're already enough is considerably harder to sell to.
Maybe that's why reinvention has become so relentless.
We aren't just being sold products.
We're being sold dissatisfaction with the person who hasn't bought them yet.
I'm Keeping Some of My Bad Habits
Controversial, I know.
There are things about myself I could improve.
There are also things I could improve and simply don't care enough to.
I will occasionally stay up too late.
I will buy the coffee instead of making it.
I will have weeks when dinner is more conceptual than prepared.
I will own more coats than one person living one life technically requires.
Some habits should change.
Some goals are worth chasing.
But perhaps adulthood isn't an endless renovation project.
Maybe at some point we get to move in.
Buy the Boots. Just Don't Expect Them to Save You.
This is not an anti-shopping article.
That would be extremely hypocritical.
Buy the coat if you love the coat.
Change your hair.
Order the seasonal drink.
Light something that smells aggressively like October.
Wear lipstick to the grocery store.
Or don’t.
Make the reservation.
Romanticize the hell out of your Tuesday.
But don't make every beautiful thing responsible for transforming you.
The boots don't need to make you confident.
The planner doesn't need to make you productive.
The candle doesn't need to turn your home into a lifestyle campaign.
Sometimes a candle can just smell good.
What a relief.
Maybe Fall Doesn't Need a New You
Perhaps the most rebellious thing we could do this season is refuse the makeover.
Not because we've given up.
Because maybe we actually like some of what we've built.
Keep the old friends.
Wear last year's coat.
Order the same drink.
Read the trashy book.
Make the dinner you've made fifty times.
Continue becoming whoever you're becoming without announcing a rebrand.
There will still be things to change.
There always are.
But maybe we don't have to wake up every few months, look at a perfectly decent life, and decide it needs new management.
So yes, I'm bringing out the boots.
I'm lighting the candle.
I'm ordering something with cinnamon in it despite cinnamon having no business costing an additional dollar.
But I'm not becoming a new person.
I've spent quite a lot of time on this one.
And I couldn't help but wonder:
If we're constantly reinventing ourselves, when exactly do we get to enjoy the person we worked so hard to become?
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