Autumn is the season of decay. I know everyone wants to talk about the ‘crisp air’ and the ‘changing leaves,’ but let’s be honest: we are watching the world die in slow motion. The sun in October is like a flickering lightbulb in a hallway you don’t want to walk down. It’s weak. It’s fading. And yet, for some reason, we all feel this manic pressure to buy a specific type of candle and pretend that wearing three layers of wool is a lifestyle choice rather than a survival tactic.
I work in a regular office doing general administrative stuff—spreadsheets, emails, the usual soul-crushing mid-level management tasks—and every year, around the second week of September, the office chat turns into a competitive sport of who can be the most ‘autumnal.’ It drives me insane. But, because I’m a hypocrite, I also have very strong opinions about what actually works and what is total garbage once the temperature drops below 50 degrees.
The great footwear betrayal of 2022
I used to think that if you spent more than $200 on boots, you were guaranteed dry feet. I was completely wrong. What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently: I was a sucker for branding. On October 14th, 2022, I was heading into a meeting with a vendor I really wanted to impress. I was wearing a pair of Thursday Boots (the Captain model in ‘Canyon’ leather) that I’d babyed for three weeks. I thought I looked like a rugged professional. I looked like a guy who knew his way around a mahogany desk.
Then I stepped off a curb in downtown Chicago. It hadn’t even rained that hard, but there was a hidden sinkhole of slush and oily street water that looked like solid ground. My entire left foot went in. About four inches deep. I felt the water hit my toes instantly. The ‘water-resistant’ welt was a total lie. I spent the next nine hours sitting in a cubicle with one wet sock, smelling like a damp basement. I ended up throwing them in the back of my closet and haven’t touched them since. They’re beautiful, but they’re decorative. They aren’t for real life.
Now, I only wear Blundstones. I know, I know. Every person in a creative agency or a coffee shop wears them. I hate that I’m one of them. I find the silhouette slightly offensive—they make your feet look like two giant potatoes—but I’ve tracked the wear on my current pair for 18 months. I’ve walked through 62 puddles, three snowstorms, and one very messy construction site. Zero leaks. Buy the 585s and stop trying to look like a Victorian explorer.
It’s about utility. That’s it.
The $400 candle problem
I did the math last night because I was feeling guilty about my credit card statement. Last year, between September and December, I spent exactly $412 on scented candles. Most of them were from those high-end brands that influencers post on Instagram—the ones with the minimalist labels and the names that sound like French poetry.
I tested 12 different brands over the course of three months. I actually kept a little notebook on my nightstand to track ‘throw’ (how far the smell goes) and burn time. Here is the data point that broke me: 80% of the expensive candles I bought smelled like burning plastic after the first two hours. You’re paying $60 for a glass jar and a marketing team’s dream.
“Most ‘seasonal’ scents are just chemical warfare disguised as cozy vibes. If it says ‘Spiced Pumpkin’ or ‘Autumn Harvest,’ it’s probably going to give you a headache by noon.”
I’ve reached a point where I refuse to buy anything scented. If I want my house to smell like autumn, I’ll roast some actual food. Or I’ll just open a window and let the smell of dying leaves and car exhaust in. It’s more authentic. I know people will disagree, and my sister thinks I’m being a ‘joyless cynic,’ but I’m tired of my living room smelling like a synthetic cinnamon factory.
Total scam.
Why I hate Barbour jackets (and why you probably should too)
I’m going to say something that might get me kicked out of certain circles, but I genuinely believe Barbour jackets are the worst piece of outerwear ever designed for the modern person. I bought a Beaufort three years ago because I thought it was a ‘wardrobe staple.’ It’s not. It’s a heavy, oily sack that makes you smell like a wet dog the moment it gets slightly damp.
The whole ‘re-waxing’ thing? It’s a cult ritual. I spent four hours one Saturday with a tin of wax and a hairdryer trying to ‘restore’ the finish. I ended up with wax on my kitchen table, wax in my hair, and a jacket that looked like it had been dipped in deep-fryer grease. And it still isn’t waterproof. If you wear it over a sweater, the wax eventually seeps into the wool. It’s a disaster. I actively tell my friends to avoid them. Get a Patagonia Torrentshell. It’s ugly, it’s loud, and it actually keeps you dry.
I refuse to recommend Barbour even though everyone loves them. They’re designed for British aristocrats who have people to clean their gear and dogs to blame the smell on. I’m just a guy who takes the bus. I don’t have time for a jacket that requires more maintenance than my car.
The things I actually use
Anyway, I’ve spent a lot of time complaining. I digress. There are a few things that actually make the transition into the dark months better. These aren’t ‘aesthetic’ choices; they’re just things that work.
- Darn Tough Socks: I have seven pairs. I wear them every day from October to April. They have a lifetime warranty, but I’ve never had to use it because they simply do not get holes. They are the only honest product left in America.
- The Hario V60: Forget the pumpkin spice lattes. A PSL tastes like a candle’s mid-life crisis. Just buy decent beans and learn to make a pour-over. It takes four minutes and it’s the only reason I get out of bed when it’s pitch black at 7:00 AM.
- A specific 100% wool blanket from a thrift store: I tested the temperature in my living room for 14 days last November. A 100% wool blanket (I found an old Faribault one) keeps you exactly 4.2 degrees warmer than those polyester ‘fleece’ blankets they sell at Target. Science doesn’t lie.
- Vermont Bag Balm: My skin falls off the moment the humidity drops. This stuff is meant for cow udders, but it’s the only thing that stops my knuckles from bleeding. It smells weird, but it works.
Worth every penny.
The part nobody talks about
I think the reason we obsess over ‘favourites’ this time of year is because we’re all a little bit scared of the winter. We’re nesting. We’re trying to build a fortress of consumer goods to protect us from the fact that the days are getting shorter and we’re all going to be stuck inside staring at our screens for the next five months.
I used to think that if I just found the perfect sweater or the perfect mug, I’d finally feel that ‘hygge’ feeling everyone talks about. But I’ve realized that the best part of autumn isn’t something you buy. It’s that one specific Tuesday in late October when the air is so cold it makes your teeth ache, and for a second, everything feels quiet.
I don’t know why we try so hard to dress it up. Maybe it’s better to just let it be a bit miserable and cold. There’s something honest about that. I’m still going to wear my potato-shaped boots and my udder cream, though. I’m not a martyr.
Does anyone actually enjoy the taste of a real pumpkin? I suspect we all just like the sugar.
