I remember getting incredibly frustrated in my parents' bedroom, facing their full-length mirror and attempting to put on a North Cumberland softball jacket at about 10 years of age. Hair too long, windbreaker material and bunchy jeans, questionably in braces, and my long shirtsleeves kept getting shoved up my forearms with each jacket sleeve attempt. I was ready to burn all the clothes in the house.

Then, in a, "What the hell are you doing?" life-changer, my mom saw me struggling and instructed me to fold my fingers back and grab my shirt sleeves before going for the jacket.

Now, in a novel, the mother character might add something forcedly wise, a "Keep calm and carry on," but my mom just swooped in, showed me how to stop being rage retarded, and left it at that. Problem solved.

Even though it's been about 15 autumns since then, I still think of my 10-year-old angst and my mom's nonchalant diversion of meltdown when I put on my first few jackets and hoodies of the fall season, the first few awkward double-sleeves. A little piece of muscle memory fires up a vivid scene with that green and yellow jacket every time I gear up to settle into November.