It’s still winter. Politics sucks, the weather sucks, and we’re all sick of being inside. Our Winteritis stories are for women who can’t read another think piece, who’ve pushed the outer limits of time it’s possible to spend on social media, and who kind of want to shop online and hibernate until spring is here.
It’s been so cold this week that every walk from the car to my apartment has felt like the sinking scene in Titanic. My coat is useless. My gloves and boots mock me. The sky is so clear that when I look up at it in frozen sorrow, the stars spell out jeers and taunts. “You begged for this in July,” they claim. “You were—ha!—too hot.”
Welcome to February. A month rich in misery, in wind chill, in ceaseless “wintry mixes.” A month that is, to quote Thomas Hobbes, “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.” Its claims to fame are Groundhog Day (six more weeks of winter, how dare you), Valentine’s Day (hard pass), and the painful memory of crying in a Pizza Hut bathroom during my friend’s eighth-birthday party because sleepovers made me homesick. But February has an advantage that few other months (or people) can claim. It’s honest. It’s a month without compromises or artifice. It tests us. Tries our will. And if we're smart and have decent indoor heat, we triumph.
It’s not impressive to rail against February. In fact, it’s weak! It’s groupthink! And I won’t have it. While I could dread February’s arrival, I instead choose to revel in the lack of FOMO that comes with nights so frigid we all just tacitly agree not to make plans. I don't bow my head in defeat. I stare unblinkingly back at the calendar as I consume worrisome amounts of discounted Valentine’s Day chocolate. I play Groundhog Day on repeat—regardless of the animal’s official prediction—and remind myself that Andie MacDowell is a cinematic treasure none of us deserves (and one no month will take away from me). I shout-remind everybody who will listen that freezing temperatures kill off germs and flu season, and then I tell myself that once every four years, February gives us the Olympic Winter Games. (February says, "You’re welcome.")
I start to stand up straighter while confronting my old, outdated grudges against February and wrap a fourth blanket around myself in victory as I recognize that its ruthlessness has forced me to challenge seasonal norms and the myths that come with it! February is not the enemy. It’s the tough-love life coach that pushes us all just a little bit harder. It’s the Mr. Feeny to our Topangas and Corys; the Jimmy Dugan to our Rockford Peaches.
And what do we prefer, anyway? Spring? A season that manipulates us until we dust off our jean jackets, only to be greeted with a surprise snowfall? Summer? A season that makes some of us (me) pass out in convenience stores from dehydration (that one time when I was 17)? Fall? I mean, OK. Fall is fine. I don’t have issues with fall.
But February demands results. It forces us to acknowledge our emotions and reassess how we cope. It pairs sun with icy tundra to make us appreciate just how much this planet has to offer. (Until we kill it with climate change, of course.) It provides junk food, often in heart shapes, unlike its vicious predecessor, January, which doesn’t want us to have pleasure, and March, which is useless. February is unapologetic and brazen and couldn’t care less if we like it or not. February is Mary Poppins.
So enjoy this February! Feel galvanized by it! Let it renew your appreciation for flannel sheets and scarves, and let it give you permission to make a date with leftover bargain-discount Valentine’s snacks at your local Walgreens. On the other side, you'll be hardier, more resilient, and in all likelihood better moisturized, prepared to take on April and May—the worst months. My nemeses.
I can only hope that somewhere February is reading this and crying.
Anne T. Donahue is a writer and person from just outside of Toronto whose work appears in publications like Marie Claire, The Globe & Mail, The Cut, and Fashionista. Her first book, Nobody Cares, was released in September.
