Kids are taught that the seasonal cycle begins with Spring, but each year is born into Winter.
I’ve never been a big fan of January. Or the bulk of February, for that matter. The brilliance of December’s holidays makes even the few bright and sunny days seem dull by comparison, and the predominant cold and nasty days all the worse. Even the few causes for celebration seem perfunctory. MLK Jr Day and Presidents’ Day net us (maybe) a day off plus the sad sight of retailers trying to make relatively solemn occasions into reasons to shop. Mostly, they afford opportunities to get errands done or see the sort of film studios release in January – Oscar bait (not generally cheery) or predestined flops (sad in a different way). Valentine’s can lift the spirit, if executed properly, but for too many has become an occasion of either obligation or chagrin. The pall lifts, for me anyhow, with my birthday at the end of February, which is followed closely on by Spring Break, now again an occasion for mirth since I re-connected to academia through Christina. Still, for however blah these weeks may be, they at least stave off the inevitable optisinularyngological assault that Spring’s vegetative orgy brings.