2010-02-02

FEHbruary.

Here we are - my LEAST favorite month of the year. Good thing that it's the shortest.

It's one month closer to April, but it's still not quite the ass-end of winter.

I open my closet and am confronted with a sea of grey and black wool. The colors (or lack thereof) don't bother me; they make up, after all, my preferred palette. It's the WOOL. It's the ponderous, scratchy BULK that you have to then cram into your winter coat.

And TROUSER SOCKS. Oh God. I'm so sick of them. And I hate that I wear TROUSER SOCKS. I hate standing in line at Filene's Basement with an armful of TROUSER SOCKS while fresh young blossoms are ahead of me buying wispy underthings for Valentine's Day. It makes me feel horribly, impossibly OLD.

The streets and sidewalks are covered with a salty white film. Grotty, gronky piles of ancient snow coated in exhaust, and riddled with cigarette butts and dog pee, are on every corner. And everywhere you go, you're reminded that love means going into CVS and buying candy and cheap stuffed animals.

Can't stand it, February. It's the month you spend feeling fat and itchy, but there's nothing like Christmas to distract you from it, and your New Year's resolutions have been long since abandoned.

My dad was born February 1. I used to feel sorry for him, until he and my mom retired and moved down to Florida. He spent yesterday playing golf and watching "NCIS."

Sigh.

lisamcc at 10:07 a.m.



1 comments so far
vikkitikkitavi
2010-02-02 17:16:34
I share your hatred of trouser socks. I think I still have a few pair at the bottom of my sock drawer that have survived since the move from Chicago. Shall I send?
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