January Blows

My lone mug

It never fails. You’ve finally got all the Christmas decorations boxed and stacked neatly in the storage space. Half an hour later, you unload the dishwasher and discover one loan holiday mug.

It’s just another one of January’s sneaky little tricks.

A writer friend I admire says January 2nd is her favorite day of the year. Fresh start and all that. Well, that’s fine for her. She’s clever enough to box up Christmas on Boxing Day, after which she reorganizes and cleans her lovely home office, adding something new to breathe freshness into her environment. She doesn’t need to go outside for work because a book publisher is eager for her next story. Besides, she lives in Kansas where spring actually comes when it’s supposed to.

Not that I’m bitter or anything. Our brutal Canadian winters are too character-building for me to become bitter.

2018 got off to a slow start for me. We returned home from Alberta on New Year’s Eve and I began sneezing as I unpacked. By morning, it was a full-on cold. Though due at work on January 2nd, I stayed home for the next three days and dragged myself to work on the 5th looking like something left over from the zombie apocalypse. There, in my foggy-brained state, I proceeded to make enough mistakes to last the year. I’m grateful Darren, our I.T. guy, bailed me out without also chewing me out. 

I can’t complain, really. I wasn’t nearly as sick as some people or for as long.

Here’s the strange thing. By the time I was in the swing of January, with Christmas put away and goals set for the new year, the month should have been at least half over. It wasn’t. And now that it finally is (half over), why does it still loom endlessly before us like an impossible glacier and me without my ice pick?

I could never figure out why January lasts for years and July for mere days when they’re supposed to be the same length. If I had invented the calendar, I’d have divvied January into two short months and called the second one “Tundruary” or “Frostember.” It might not change anything, but at least it would feel like progress.

One of these years, I’ll take my vacation in January and go somewhere warm. I admit I’m enough of a pessimist to think that when I finally save enough money for that once-in-a-lifetime trip, it will rain the entire time. Or an earthquake will strike. Or I’ll come down with Montezuma’s Revenge. Or flights will be delayed and rerouted, so I burn an extra week’s vacation time at O’Hare. Far better to simply stay here, gaze at the stunning photos of gorgeous sunny beaches posted on Facebook by others, and hate them for it.

Did I mention I’m not bitter?

At least the days are growing noticeably longer. Or is that just something we Canadians say to survive?