I Hate February

And I know why.

The days are short, cold and sunless. How in the Hell Phil saw his shadow in this muck is beyond me. I can't even find enough light to get my vitamin D. Or is it C we get from sunlight?

Don't remember right now, and don't care. I HATE February.

And I know why. During February I usually have a hard time becoming motivated. I can't even become stirred enough to check the Internets to see which vitamin it is we get from sunlight.

I hate February because of what it does to me on a yearly basis. There is no rush toward Christmas to keep me occupied and busy; any project I have can usually wait another day. Or two. Or seven.

I'm more likely to hit the lazy boy than I am the workshop on a weekend or an evening; a nap seems more productive than making sawdust.

But then the Ides of March hit. Grass starts turning a little greener; daffodils start peeking up through the morning frost and the new small leaves start sneaking past the bark on the lilac bush. The furnace starts running less and less and one day we can actually open a window, for the first time in what seems like a lifetime.

And I start feeling the stirrings of my motivation again. Spring not only reawakens the dormant saps to bring the plants to flower; it also brings to life the dormant creative juices that the darkest days of winter forced into hibernation.

I hate February.

It's the Purgatory of the year; the place we spend our penance in hope of the rebirth we have been promised. And every year the rebirth happens, and life goes on.

If we can survive another damned February.