We regret to inform you that, despite our best efforts, February has come again. February is the Coldplay of all months. If it had a flavor, it would be Panera bread’s tortilla soup. If it had a scent, it would be the musk of the library’s untouched seventh-floor Medieval texts. If it were a Kardashian, it would be Kendall. It is tasteless and bleak, without glamour or ambition.
February, at least, does not try to be something it is not. It isn’t like deceitful March, who, under the guise of pretending to be the advent of spring, attempts to convince all its subjects that it is mild and tame. In reality, March is just a second coming of February — except March is two days longer. Cunning March is yet another bleak onslaught of winter, masking its true odor under a billowing cloud of flowery perfume. March is no more a warm, spring month than Wednesday is a weekend.
Nor is February as half-hearted as its predecessor. January is like any untrained Turkey trot participant. He jumps at the gun, sprinting from the starting lineup with unbridled gusto. But much too quickly onto his course, he realizes that he is untrained and unfit, and begins to slow, slow, slow, until he is at last crawling towards the finish line. Then, it’s off to his kitchen, where he stuffs himself with butter, bread and every other carb known to man.
January loses sight of his initial intentions. At New Year’s, he promises to change, to bring about a new era of transformation, to rally the other months behind him. But by that second week of grey overcast and below-freezing temperatures, he gives up. He becomes grim and unmotivated, and this depression lasts for a good three weeks or so.
February, on the other hand, takes itself at face value. It knows what it is and doesn’t attempt to be anything more. Every February holiday is man-made and lackluster. Even Valentine’s Day understands its ranking among the holidays: somewhere just above Labor Day but behind the Fourth of July. It knows its purpose; it accepts its station. Like February, Valentine’s brings with it a wave of depression (for those who have no lovers) and stress (for those who don’t know what to buy their significant other). It is by no means an easygoing holiday, and so, it fits very well within February’s portfolio. As does Fat Tuesday, which is really just a day to feel bad about yourself before feeling even worse for the next 40 days.
There is not much to be said about April, who is just a slightly less foxy March. By the time May rolls around, spring is truly in full bloom … and no one can enjoy it. May is full of late-night-cram-sessions and regretting-not-paying-attention-in-class. The permacloud dissolves, the snow melts and the sun reveals itself — just when it’s time for everyone to lock themselves inside. May is cruel, promising pleasure but dangling just out of reach. It is tantalizing and misguided.
If January is a shirker, and March a swindler, if April is unremarkable, and May is sadistic, perhaps there’s no great shame in February’s bleakness. It is very bleak. So utterly bleak. If it were a sport, it would be croquet. If it were an airport, it would be Newark. If it were an app, it would be “Contacts.”
I had a conversation with February once, and it was painfully burdensome. We were in an elevator. They were playing an acapella cover of a Duran Duran song. I asked if February was working on anything cool at the office. February said no, just the usual (something about revenues and marginal cost). I noticed February was eating a plain rice cracker and asked if he liked to cook.
“Yes,” he said.
“What do you cook?” I asked.
“Oh, you know,” he replied. “Chicken.” Lightly salted, I’d assume.
Though his general air of gloominess and misery sucks you in and almost makes you forget, February is short. Much shorter than any other month I’ve met (maybe it’s a growth deficiency).
Thankfully, we were never trapped in the same room again. I heard he was transferred to the Scranton office.
With the close of this gloomy month, we surrender ourselves to March, who gleefully awaits our arrival. Will we miss February when he’s gone? Let’s not be dishonest with ourselves! We don’t need to flatter a month who doesn’t attempt to do so himself. February knows we merely tolerate his presence. He has no shame about it.
February has ended. But never fear! Despite our best efforts, he will be back again next year.
Gracie Eppler is a senior business analytics and English major from St. Louis, MO. Her three top three things ever to exist are '70’s music, Nutella and Smith Studio 3, where she can be found dancing. You can reach her at geppler@nd.edu.
