I tried different titles for this post.
February is the cruelest month. (It can be very icy, cold, and miserable, but T.S. Eliot already grabbed that honor for April.)
February is the shortest month. (Can’t argue with that.)
February is the worst-spelled month. (I mean, come on! What IS the deal with that goofy silent “r”?)
But I settled on the title “February is the coolest month” for three reasons:
(1) It is quite cold, at least where I live.
(2) It rhymes with “cruelest” (for a little literary echo).
(3) For me, it meets the other definition of coolest, because … it’s my birthday month.
And, dear reader, I DO think that February is the best month — the coolest of them all. I guess that’s because I’ve managed to separate any negative feelings about aging from my experience of my birthday.
What I’ve done with my fears about aging is to strategically place them elsewhere. On New Year’s Eve.
New Year’s Eve is when I get all caught up with the passage of time, fears about my own mortality, and all that other fun stuff. As a result, if I’m going to get moody and freaked out about getting older, I save it up for New Year’s Eve. Who knows how I’ll feel on December 31 of This Year of Living Non-Judgmentally; in all the judgmental years leading up to this one, I’ve really disliked it.
So while this strategy may be unfair to an innocent, end-of-year date, it allows me to continue to enjoy my birthday. Freaking out about where the hell time is going? New Year’s Eve. Fun and excitement and the expectation of cake? That would be my birthday.
I’m glad that I’ve been able to maintain some consistency of joy each year so far, looking forward to my birthday.
And I’m glad the coolest month is here.