Yes, I said it. TGIF. Thank. God. It’s. February.

Dudes, I’m not going to lie: this winter has been rough. Thinking back, I believe there was a part of me that thought, back in balmy late November, that puppy + wedding planning = happiness in all climates!

That part of me slipped on the ice Tuesday, muttered “fuck this” under her breath and spent the next hour frantically searching Jetsetter for a last-minute getaway.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no stranger to snow. I grew up in Southern New England and spent weekends (begrudgingly, but still) in the only chillier place accessible by car (Northern New England!), watching the snow inch upwards on our deck, week after week, as my parents oohed and aahed about the accumulation. I breezily survived  two winters in DC, Indian dancing through the second one with ease. Even last winter’s trio of blizzards failed to really throw me for a loop: I actually kind of liked the drama of it, the “will we or won’t we have heat today?” anxiety. If nothing else, it gave me something to focus on until Spring.

But this year. This year we have heat (thank you, landlords!) and a puppy and wedding planning galore. We have a caramel-colored fluff ball with a heart-shaped nose and a dream photographer booked (yay!) and still – still – we do not feel so happy. (And by we, I mean me. Because it would legitimately take a 365-day long hailstorm to make Dave utter a sigh one-tenth as annoying as a forecast of flurries forces me to produce.)

I think it’s the constance of this winter , the lack of reprieve. The big piles of dirty snow that don’t melt, the big stretches of black ice plotting my demise, the dog that enjoys eating frozen vomit off the sidewalk. (Yes, it nauseates me too.) There’s no ebb and flow, no excitement or preparation preceding an upcoming storm because, dude, there’s always an upcoming storm. Mother Nature set a grueling pace this year.

For a variety of reasons, I didn’t have the best start to January, and so I started to focus on my upcoming trip out West, telling myself to just hold out for that change of scenery, that chance to wear flats. I also promised myself that when I got back, it would essentially be February, and winter would essentially be over.

I see now that that was a lie, and, perhaps, the wrong approach. Because when I arrived back on the East Coast, and the date read January 19, I was certainly confused. Turns out January is a long month, people. The last 12 days have positively crept by.

But. But! Now February is really, truly here. And I’m ready to celebrate. We’re one month in! I can see my birthday and match day on the horizon! Let’s throw a party! (No, really, let’s. I’m going to be 26, bitches!)

I know it might be unrealistic to celebrate the introduction of the second month of the year. I understand, on some level, that this really only puts us closer to the heart of the season, not farther from it. I know I’ll probably be, once again, a bit confused when Feb. 19 rolls around and the pool at my gym still more closely resembles the Arctic Circle than the place I used to work on my tan every weekend this summer. But at this point, I really don’t give a shit. The dog is insisting on being taken out at 5 a.m., the band we want won’t return my emails and I can’t afford anything on Jetsetter. For now, delusional thinking will just have to do.


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