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David Spates February is a ridiculous little month Sometimes writing this column is easy. I'll
see or read something during the course of my day that just screams
out to be molded into a column. Or perhaps an idea will simply
pop into my head, bounce around for a few days and then effortlessly
make its way from my cerebrum to my computer. The past few weeks' efforts have been easy
columns to write. The one about wearing helmets while sledding?
No sweat. It all but wrote itself -- I almost felt bad attaching
my name to it. The week after that I rambled on about the state
lottery issue. Passionate issues like state-sponsored gambling
are a cinch in which to insert opinion and persuasion. I feel
one way, and the reader either agrees with me or not. Either
way I get a response. And then there was last week's column about
baby colors. That was one of those ideas that strikes me when
I'm out and about not even trying to develop a column topic.
Once it hits me, however, I immediately begin working through
it in my head. By the time my designated column-writing day and
time approaches, I'm pretty much just taking down dictation at
that point. Today, however, is not one of those easy-writing
days, and do you know what I blame? I blame February. I blame
the entire month of February. I blame all 28 days, and if this
were a leap year the 29th day would bear the brunt of my loathing
as well. February and I have never had a good relationship.
Well, to be honest about it, I suppose we're not really talking
about a relationship, per se. A relationship implies a two-way
street, give and take, yin and yang. I doubt that February, in
whatever form it may take, considers itself in a relationship
with David Spates, assistant editor of the Crossville Chronicle.
February simply starts and begins like it does every year, with
little or no concern about the lives it mars. In a sense, February
has the same detached coexistence with me that I have with, say,
an ant that I unwittingly crush with my rattling grocery cart
in the parking lot of my favorite mart. Before I continue, let me say to all those
people who actually enjoy February that I'm glad you have a better
relationship with this repugnant month than I. Millions of people
have birthdays, anniversaries and other special events they celebrate
this month, and to you I say happy birthday, happy anniversary,
happy Valentine's Day, happy Groundhog's Day or whatever. It's
nothing personal, you understand. This is between me and it. My contempt for February is based on numerous
reasons. One of the most pronounced is its ridiculous spelling
and the R that almost no one pronounces. I forgot to include
that God-forsaken R on numerous elementary school spelling tests.
That R cost me big. I realize the English language is chock full
of silent letters, but that R really chafes my butt. And then there's the whole 28 days thing.
Except sometimes February gets a wee bit of an inferiority complex
and decides that every so often it needs to tack on another day
just so that it can look good for the girls at the beach. What
is that? I understand that the Earth's orbit around the sun mandates
an extra day on the calendar every four years, but how did February
end up with only 28 days in the first place? With all those months
with 31 days, you'd think that January or December or July would
have stepped up, sacrificed itself for the team, and given February
a day. But it didn't happen, did it? I'm not sure I would have
done it either if I had an extra day hanging off my calendar
page. Let February fend for itself. A ridiculous month deserves
a ridiculous number of days. Finally, another reason I despise February
is because it just won't let go of winter. In December, winter
is kind of a novel idea. A little snow here and there, a bite
in the air -- December opens the door for winter with a welcome
smile. January is full-blown winter. This is what winter is all
about. Snow that lasts for days, missed school days and sledding
helmet-free down an icy hill. By the time February drags its
withering shell of a body through the door, you simply want winter
to be over and spring to begin. You're tired of the road salt
covering your car, you're tired of the lifeless trees, and you're
tired of paying jumbo-sized heating bills. Where's spring with
all of its life and renewal? It's still weeks away. It's February. The good news? Six days down. The bad news? Twenty-two days to go. |