February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
-an excerpt from “February” by Margaret Atwood
Oh February, how I dread seeing your face each year. This is always a hard month for me to get through. It’s a lonely, long-dead leaf skittering across an empty sidewalk. The charm of winter has worn off, and it’s so cold the clouds are holding onto the snow to keep themselves warm.
February is a grey lady who keeps me inside my house and inside my head for far too long. She holds no joy of holiday and no glimmer of spring. She is a month of struggling to keep resolutions, of grim realities and uncomfortable crossroads. No one has a picnic in February, our eyes are too heavy and our fingers too numb.
But life isn’t supposed to be one jolly picnic, is it? We need Februaries to appreciate December and May and September and all the other pleasant months in between. So that’s the last you’ll hear me complain about her. I’ll square my shoulders, set my eyes on the horizon, and keep walking until March.
To this end, my February resolution focuses on mental balance by increasing my physical activity. Nothing shakes the dust and cobwebs out of your head like a little blood flow. Or so my mother tells me. I’m not going to give you any specifics because I’m not interested in keeping an exercise diary but there will be a conscious effort on my part to be less of a lazy slug in my free time this month. I will probably complain the whole time, so you don’t want to hear about it anyway.
Power through, friends.