Devon wrote a letter to January on her blog and I’m tempted to do the same. Instead I’ll just say that today seems like a short version of January so far. It’s raining out and already dark. Chilly. Damp. My wastebasket at work is full of Kleenex. The mind is fixated on the end of the day. I want to find a warm place, put my head down, and wake up when this month is over. This month, this season, I’m sick of it. I hate winter. Truly and with a passion. I used to be more forgiving, occasionally I could see the joy in the crisp air and the dying time lit up with lights. I would take the opportunity to curl up under blankets and read. Hot chocolate can be appreciated. Now I just see it for what it is—something to endure.
And yes, it’s my birth month so I should be a little more compassionate, but no more. I can’t help it if I was born in the worst month of the year. The month everyone gets sick in. The month everyone wants to escape from. This bleak, cold, isolated, unforgiving, stretch of days is now dead to me. My only goal is to be free from its frigid grasp.
And yes, February, you suck too. I’ll just go ahead and say it. Both of you get a lifelong time out from me. So go sit in the corner and I don’t want to hear one word from your thin-lipped mouths. (Pissy little creatures that you are.)
Wow, I really feel better. Thanks.