The holidays are kaput. It’s back to grim reality and those wretched forty-hour workweeks. How will we survive without the glorious four-day weekends we’ve enjoyed? We can’t be expected to sustain ourselves through the cold, bleak months ahead without inducements. We’re not magicians. We need the distraction of festive parties and expensive gifts and paid time off.
The painful reality is, January and February await. Making matters worse, this is a leap year; February has an extra day. Whose bright idea was that, I wonder? Probably those damn Gregorians with their solar charts. Did they even consider June or May or October when they were passing out additional days?
We just need to focus on maintaining our sanity and get through the stark, desolate, monochromatic days ahead. There are only 57 left. We can do this. We can.
For now, we’ll need to make do with visions of sandy beaches and tropical islands. Imagination is a powerful thing, use it to your advantage. Or visit a travel agent and grab a stack of brochures. It’s lovely and warm somewhere.
Most of the planet, in fact, is in the grip of La Niña or El Niño or Storm Frank or global warming, some mitigating weather anomaly. The world is experiencing record warmth. Cherry trees bloomed along the Potomac in December and the North Pole is seeing temperatures 60º above normal, creating a climate similar to Chicago’s.
I keep reminding myself this isn’t cause for celebration, it’s bad. Catastrophic, even. Melting ice caps, rising sea levels, this is serious, dangerous stuff with scary consequences. I promise you, I’m not celebrating — I’m just not, you know, protesting. I feel bad about that. Really. Totally guilty. And, all right, yes, relieved.
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