That's it. February of 2019 is over. Every year, for as long as I can remember, I embrace February 1st with considerable optimism. I swear to myself that I am going to surrender and settle into the coziness of the long, dark winter nights. I vow to start and complete a substantial indoor house project, plant seedlings, read a book a week.
As usual, it didn't go as planned. The high I was feeling after a late January trip to sunny California lasted only about a week. Then I fell right into my battle with February. By the 22nd, it was a full-on war, and I was losing. No downstairs molding or trim got painted. The only seedlings growing were on someone else's Pinterest page. I started Wuthering Heights 4 times and never made it past Chapter 7.
I took Vitamin D, juiced green vegetables, went to yoga, met friends out for dinner and still felt like I couldn't maneuver past my foggy February brain. I could sleep at any given moment for eight straight hours and still want more. I dreamed of snow days that never came and drove back and forth to work every Monday through Friday. My life, it's not hard. So, why are these 28 days so exhausting? Why do my legs feel like they're filled with cement in February? Why can’t I get one thing done?
I didn't even eat any ice cream this year. And all that green juice? I was so hopeful this February was going to be different.
Today I'm going to copy and paste all the things from my February to-do list to March. The forecast for the weeks ahead looks cold and snowy, but somehow March has a promising ring to it. The days are getting longer. The chances of seeing a dry patch of pavement are excellent. I'm feeling lighter already.
Adios February. My fleece pajamas and I will try winning the battle with you again next year.