February, we’re fighting. You’re the shortest month of the year, and yet somehow you drag on and on and on. Now, on top of everything, you’ve thrown us into a polar vortex.
I’m not sure if you’ve noticed this, but one of my coping techniques for the pandemic has been spending time outside. When the high reaches 17°, that’s not really possible. Yes, it’s almost 30 degrees warmer than it was yesterday so it feels “nice” in comparison, but I don’t really run outside unless it’s at least 35° (and not super windy). And with where my head’s been lately, I could use a good run right now.
Since you’re refusing to play nicely, February, I did an hour of yoga today to try to break my funk. And it worked, in the moment, but when I had to return to reality my peace was gone.
Not only that, but this evening I caught Beckett in the pantry eating pancake mix. Not pancakes . The powder that eventually turns into pancakes!
We still have 11 days left of each putting up with one another, February. Can we call a truce? I’ll quit being so grumpy about you, and you’ll stop making everything horrible. Cool? Cool.