I think I’ve written about this before, but…January gets me down, y’all.
I try to get ahead of it, prepare for it, meet it head-on, but it still gets the best of me. Every. Single. Time.
It leaves me uninspired. unmotivated. and just kinda… grey. and it makes me feel lumpy. In my soul. Like everything around me is gravy. But not good gravy. Bad gravy. Lumpy Grey Cold gravy.
I used to think it had to do with the chilly overcast of winters in Washington. The long, long nights. The crisp, brief, moody, melancholy, drizzly days.
But after living in the south for the better part of 20 years, where we still get plenty of sunshine, day and night are a little closer to even, the occasional 75 degree day graces us with its presence, and it really doesn’t get… and stay… cold, I think that the doldrums of January are caused by the letdown.
Holidays. Food. Family. Costumes. Decorations. Lights. Pumpkins. Pie!
after late night celebrations, punctuated by pops of fireworks, and kisses at midnight… my phone ringing and pinging every few minutes for several hours as friends from coast to coast send texts full of wishes for a happy new year… in creeps that girl January.
She is slumped on my doorstep like a sad puppy. Her hair matted and her makeup smeared, and she looks a bit like she’s been either crying or vomiting. probably a little of both.
And so I let her in. Because even January needs a safe place to lay her head.
So she sleeps. And she eats my food. And she makes a damn mess and doesn’t clean up after herself. And she overstays her welcome.
I start to get antsy. Like my skin doesn’t quite fit right. I try to create something, but my arms and hands just don’t really want to move – like my motivation is just. out. of. reach.
So I make peace with her. I sit down and wallow with her in all her moody, melancholy glory. And I wait it out. Because I know that February will come soon and fly right by, and then it will be March… and once spring walks in and everything starts blooming again, so do I.
So I wait.
Maybe I?should spend every January in the Caribbean. In a little shack on the beach. Eating nothing but fresh fruit all month long. I mean, it has to be a little harder to let the greys in when the ocean is staring back at you all day.
But no. I’ll let her in again. Like a road-weary friend who just needs a couch to sleep on for awhile. While she collects her thoughts, rejuvenates. If I am that safe space for January to come to, to rest her bones, and bask in her shadows for a time, who am I to argue.
She will always be January.
But I get spring. And autumn. And the little bit of summer that does me right. and so a little grey here and there is bearable. I guess.