Complex Numbers

February

I've grown to hate February.

I'm not really sure when it happened. I think it was a gradual thing, like the slow realization that something, somewhere is just wrong.

I threw your keys in the water, I looked back,
Theyd frozen halfway down in the ice.
They froze up so quickly, the keys and their owners,
Even after the anger, it all turned silent, and
The everyday turned solitary,
So we came to february.

Except that I can't quite remember liking February, not really. It starts with Groundhog Day, which is about as silly a holiday that I could think of. Later, when I found its ancient meaning, it became slightly less silly. But it's still Groundhog Day.

First we forgot where wed planted those bulbs last year,
Then we forgot that wed planted at all,
Then we forgot what plants are altogether,
And I blamed you for my freezing and forgetting and
The nights were long and cold and scary,
Can we live through february?

Then, of course, is Valentine's Day.

I don't get Valentine's Day. Why do we have to have a day like that, anyway?

I think a lot of people would rather spend Christmas without family than Valentine's Day without smooches. It makes no sense to me, but then, I'm a guy.

You know I think christmas was a long red glare,
Shot up like a warning, we gave presents without cards,
And then the snow,
And then the snow came, we were always out shoveling,
And we'd drop to sleep exhausted,
Then we'd wake up, and its snowing.

Oh, yeah, there's the snow. Even in years when it hardly snows at all here, it snows in February. Maybe just one light dusting; more often, a massive load of frozen stupid turning Virginia into a dirty, slushy, road-raging wonderland.

And february was so long that it lasted into march
And found us walking a path alone together.
You stopped and pointed and you said, thats a crocus,
And I said, whats a crocus? and you said, its a flower,
I tried to remember, but I said, whats a flower?
You said, i still love you.

Of course, then there's the length. 28 days. I think it used to be the END of the calendar, as evidenced by a bunch of months that start with number names. September - seven. October - eight. And so on. Like the new year once began in March, and they suddenly ran out of days in February.

I never seem to get as much work done in February. Partly it's because of the snow; partly the missing days; partly the inevitable depression.

The leaves were turning as we drove to the hardware store,
My new lover made me keys to the house,
And when we got home, well we just started chopping wood,
Because you never know how next year will be,
And well gather all our arms can carry,
I have lost to february.

         -Dar Williams,
         February

But the worst thing, the killer thing about this month is that I was born in it, one snowy-ass Friday in 1966. This, doing the math, means I turn 41 this year, and if THAT's not reason enough to hate the month I don't know what is. Birthdays lately have been less a chance for celebration and more a reason to look back and think of all the things I could have done, and to miss my parents. Oh, sure, I have a good life, and I love my wife and appreciate my friends, but I never can shake the idea that I could have, might have done something more... important, if I'd tried.

Worse, I end up realizing that I don't really care.

When we found the things we loved,
They were crushed and dying in the dirt.
We tried to pick up the pieces,
And get away without getting hurt,
But they caught us at the state line,
And burned our cars in one last fight,
And left us running burned and blind,
Chasing something in the night.
-Bruce Springsteen,
Something in the Night