I hate February. I hate the way it looks and feels. I hate the way I look and feel. It’s all gray and crusty. At this point, year after year after year, I’m ready to take radical action to snap me out of the dull, motivation-lacking, repetitive routine which has devolved into “getting through today” rather than my usual “enjoy the experiences that only today can bring” approach.
(Radical action ranges from the application of daily lipstick–in some gaudy coral shade–to gutting the bank account and escaping with my passport–to someplace with coral in the water.)
At this point in our annual trip around the sun, I get cagey and begin scanning the trees for buds and/or robins. I’m edgy like that meth addict I saw in a sobering documentary: if I don’t see some sign of spring soon, I’m very nervous that I might lose my mind.
In those years when we face not twenty-eight dreaded days to drudge through but an extra day thrown in there as something of a sick joke, I try to remain as optimistic as possible. This year, I even did some research into why February was chosen (of all the months out there) to add a day to. There is some rationale based on what people were thinking back in 46 BCE.
In 2016, I am of the opinion that a 2,062-year-old rationale should yield to common sense.
No one wants an extra day in February.
I don’t care if you’re the world’s most enthusiastic skier, snow-shoer, or ice fisher. You manage a twenty-eight-day February just fine three out of four years. You wouldn’t even miss 2/29.
I’m all for adding a day in May. Or even October. Don’t want thirty-two days in month? Ok. How about April or September?
How about any month but this one?
I hate you, February. I hate your lackluster looks, I hate your silent “r,” I hate your commercially-endorsed holiday centered around candy and flowers.
You know why February is the only month that starts with “f”?
No? Me neither, but I like to think it’s for the alliteration:
Fuck off, February.
That’s an “f” sound for each word. Seems about right to me.