The eleventh twelfth of a weariness.
-Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary
I used to feel sorry for the DJs who would tell us on Monday that it was only five more days to the weekend. What kind of life do you have where 75% of your time on Earth is spent wishing you were someplace else?
Well, lately I seem to have joined the day-countin' masses. Weekdays seem packed with responsibilty, pressure, and not enough time with the people you love. We fill our weekends with stuff, too. Sunday we rest. But not too much, it's the only day we have free.
I disagree with Bierce, though. It's not November. It's freakin' February. Get me outta here. For some reason, this time of year is by far my busiest. And it's the darkest and gloomiest. November is still Autumn. There's cider and Halloween candy left. There's still a chance for Indian Summer. February? It's the shortest month for a reason.
High schoolers spend the whole year counting down: to Christmas break, to spring break, to summer break. Today, I want to join them. I still don't think spending most of your days wishing for better days is a way to live. But on a dark day in deepest winter, I like to pretend that my calendar's shifted, and I'm nearing the end of my eleventh twelfth right about now. And that at its end, I need not resume counting.
January gray is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,
March with grief doth howl and rave,
And April weeps—but, O ye hours!
Follow with May’s fairest flowers.
-Shelley, “Dirge for the Year”