March

It’s March!! WooHoo.

I hate February. The only thing going for it is that it’s the shortest month. Okay, it has Valentine’s Day. But that’s a hokey, made-up holiday so it doesn’t count. I suppose you could count Presidents’ Day, but why? There’s nothing fun about it unless you count “white sales,” and I don’t.

February is too far from Christmas to retain any holiday glow. It’s too far from April so there’s no taste of spring. Instead, it has skies of gray flannel (thanks for that metaphor, Sharmon) and cold winds that penetrate to the bone. Not to mention that you’ve been shut-up in the house so long that everyone is sharing everyone else’s germs—“Yep, I’ve got this cold/flu/infection for the third time this month.”

But then March comes. March holds the promise of spring. My hellebore blooms, the crocuses blossom, and the daffodils poke their heads up and will eventually flower, assuming they don't get their blooms ruined by some nasty ice storm. On the down side, there aren’t any good holidays in March. (Easter’s in April). St. Patrick’s Day is okay—I buy corned beef the day afterwards when it’s on sale. But I don’t see the point in walking around wearing green (or, at least for me, orange).

Oh, and the time changes in March. The whole “spring forward” thing is a waste. Why on earth do we torture ourselves with this? And if you don’t have teenagers yet, you haven’t experienced the level of torture associated with getting them out of bed an hour early. Said teenagers greet you at the breakfast table with scowls and beady eyes that proclaim, “You, parent, are inflicting cruel and unusual punishment on me—my constitutional rights are being violated.” I smile back with glazed eyes that say, “Take it up with the Congress. And while you’re at it, you can tell them that their health care package sucks.”

So, yeah, it’s March. No cool holidays. The time changes. And it’s still ridiculously cold. And it’s still snowing. Again. Grr. Maybe April will be better.