Can we all just take a few moments to acknowledge that there are three months on the calendar that no one really likes? I’m looking at you, January, February, and March. The holiday season ends in a blaze of glory (especially if your neighbors like to set off New Year’s fireworks like ours do), and suddenly we’re feeling the doom of facing three months of nothing.
It’s three months of no man’s land. Three months that we’ll never even be able to remember later this fall. I feel like there must be some kind of complex algorithm that a scientist could create to help us skip winter altogether.
Or maybe one day I’ll have the funds to plan a three-month Caribbean vacation. But let’s be honest…if I stayed in the Caribbean for three months, I would probably never come back. I once got a tanning bed membership, not because I particularly wanted to be super tan, but just because I wanted to close my eyes and pretend that I was somewhere warm.
But without fail every January, winter comes knocking at my door like some unwelcome relative, ready to settle down and stay for a while without any definite move-out date. It’s the Cousin Eddie of seasons, if you will.
We try to do what we can to cope with the loss of beautiful weather and moderate temperatures. My kids like to pretend that it’s still Christmas. If we all squeeze our eyes tightly and sing “Jingle Bells” at the top of our lungs, maybe we can bring back some of that Christmas spirit! (Our tree is disassembled and stored in the attic, though, in case you were wondering. We’re not those kind of people.) Or we can just celebrate the heck out of the little winter holidays that come our way. We threw a party for Chinese New Year a few weeks ago. We went big with Valentine’s Day. We took a weekend getaway at a vacation resort for President’s Day. You’d better believe we celebrated Mardi Gras. In case you weren’t aware, International Women’s Day is coming up soon, and you have my full permission to take the day off and go shopping and drink wine. If anyone asks you for justification, just tell them, “WINTER.” Enough said.
Winter has been brutal to us, friends. We deserve a holiday! We deserve a break. It brings us deadly ice and snow. Except this year, we didn’t even get that much snow, so we’re mad about that, too. Winter has brought us devastating flood waters. It has decorated my floor with little muddy shoe prints and paw prints that never seem to go away (is there any point in even bothering to mop?).
Winter is the season for giving and receiving — you know, things like cold, flu, RSV, strep throat. They are the gifts that keep on giving, because you know they’re going to be passed around among your family and friends and church and school and even the nice lady who rings up your groceries at Publix. No one is safe! (Not even you, annoying person in my news feed who brags about never getting sick because you use just the right combination of essential oils. I bet you will be the one who randomly catches a cold in June.)
I can’t even remember the last time I completed a full week of work. We have had one sickness after another. I’ve become afraid to answer my phone between the hours of 8am to 3pm (I know it’s not a friend calling — a friend would just text) because there’s a 75% chance it’s going to be the preschool telling me to come pick up one of my sick children. I’m waiting for the doctor to offer me some kind of a punch card. If you visit four times in one week, the fifth visit is free! Please?
If we just knew when winter was definitely going to be over, it might be easier to handle. But there’s so much uncertainty. We have sporadic days of warmer temperatures that give us false hope. We see early spring blossoms shooting up through the ground, knowing full well they’ll never even make it to Easter. We put an almost religious amount of importance on what the groundhog tells us each year. Have you even seen him emerge from his little hole to look for his shadow? It is not at all like they describe. He doesn’t casually saunter out of his home. They have to drag him out, little paws clawing at the doorway, and force him to make his prediction. No one wants to be the bearer of bad news. Six more weeks of winter? I bet he gets death threats in the mail. Punxsutawney Phil is living in fear because he knows the truth that the rest of us refuse to acknowledge: winter will last well past the point when we think it should be over. And it will happen that way year after year after year.
I hate you, winter. There. I said it.
If it’s wrong to hold this much bitterness against a non-living entity, then I don’t want to be right. The only thing I can be thankful for is that it’s almost (maybe?) over. I’m sure I won’t always feel this way. One day in the middle of July when it’s 102F degrees outside and my clothes are sticking to my body in all the worst places, I will probably wax poetic about snuggly sweaters and cute boots and hot chocolate. I’ll dream of a winter wonderland and wonder if it’s too early to go on Amazon and start shopping for coats.
But for now, I’m going to be putting in a phone call to my friend…
