Winter isn’t long enough anymore.
I realized this last weekend, when about 12 hours worth of activities couldn’t cram itself into 48. A garden needed planted, neighbor girl’s birthday needed attended, dinner needed cooked and cards just had to be played. Before I knew it, Monday morning was in my sites.
This never happened in February where I’m from.
February where I’m from is a month of irksome depression. The beauty of snow past months earlier with Christmas’ coming and going, white shit on the ground is synonymous with Seasonal Affective Disorder. Life is being confined to nonexistence, right now, where I am from.
What more can you do, in February where I’m from, than coop yourself up next to a bottle of (something) until the misery has passed? It’s been like this since Halloween.
I say I’m a victim of self-imposed circumstances now, living in a place where February smells like spring was conceived one menstrual cycle ago. The mountain bike needs work; so does Kalista’s trailer, attached to it since fall. The garage they both stay in hasn’t seen daylight for months. It didn’t appear, this weekend when I raised the bay door and let in the sunshine, mice had found their way inside the place.
I grew up not having these concerns until April. It was not until Easter had passed I felt obligated to do stuff outside. The thought of swimming wouldn’t rear its unsightly head until July; yard work was forever optional; and car washes weren’t consistent before mid-May.
I’m still not used to the number of structures I have to look after maintain tripling in quantity (house, garage, yard) for a number of months. That’s why I say “thank God” mice didn’t make a mess in the garage.
This weekend could include anything: painting with Mr. and Mrs. Nuffer, road cycling, mountain biking, grilling out, finishing the garden, thatching the yard or committing a hate crime. With the exception of committing a hate crime (which I was obviously joking about), the possibilities are endless.
In a way, though, it’s too bad those possibilities aren’t limited to walking around a hardwood floor home in a church sweater, cooking soup from scratch and drinking a bunch of beer.
At least I have people to share the misery with.