I wonder at what latitude this dread begins for others but for me at 39.627 degrees north, January begins approximately 12 weeks of clinging desperately to the hope of potential warmth in March and consists of a mental countdown and coping strategies not used at any other point in the calendar.
“It’s January 7th, so January is basically over and then comes February but that’s a short month and we get a few holidays in those months, then March comes and the light shines even brighter at the end of this cold, dark, depressing tunnel, so really if I can make it through this week everything will be fine.” And then I repeat that hopeful outlook until March comes. And sometimes that works. But sometimes it doesn’t.
Sometimes March is like, you thought January and February were bad…hold my beer, lady, and proceeds to swing wildly between frigid unseasonably cold days fraught with snow storms alternated between sunny warm traps of false hope that lead into rain. Then more rain. And suddenly I haven’t had a good hair day in months and I’m hanging by my fingernails to the edge of a cliff closing my eyes in defeat and waiting quietly for May.
And oh the joy of late spring and early summer. Nothing tastes sweeter – even a bad day can’t be that bad. The birds are singing, all the baby animals are adorable, and the hope that never actually died but seriously almost did a few times comes bouncing back and gives new meaning to my life as I approach the days with gladness I don’t even have to fake. Until August.
At this point the sun has been out for months; long enough for my fleshly spirit to take it for granted, and it’s hot now. My hair is sticking to my neck and my face in sweaty curls that are unbecoming at best. Ironically it is during this consistent yearly heat wave that I choose to have my summer camp – 10 days of reminding children to hydrate while we willingly hike for miles like sadists. There are times in the winter that I can re-wear an article of clothing. Doing that at this point in the year would be a crime against humanity.
Then just like in Winnie the Pooh on Christopher Robin’s first day of school, a cool wind comes and blows in some relief, reigniting my will to live and allowing me to wear my hair down once again. But only for a minute. Just like March, September and October have multiple personalities and some of them are real jerks.
Once fall settles in, which is truly my favorite season despite my name, the bittersweet love begins around Halloween, (maybe earlier depending on whether Niña or Niño is winning), as I oscillate between being in the moment and soaking up the temperate climate and dreading the impending post-Christmas reality.
Which is where I am now – in that reality, repeating old and creating new coping strategies to gaslight myself into hanging in there with a smile on my face as I write, learn to sew, go to the gym, try new recipes and love on my horse that isn’t really mine but kind of is. Oh and dress my porch goose I got for Christmas that won’t be going on the porch but sits on a table waiting for me to learn how to sew so I can make her beautiful dresses to go with her wigs. She’s truly fabulous.
Roasted Peanuts 