It’s January, folks. School is back on, and the engines are churning around once more. The smog that has trickled into our earlobes and clogged our brains as we sat on the couch and ate cookies all day every day for one month has to go. It was nice while it lasted, a warm mug in one hand and a good book in the other. That time has passed. This three day weekend was a nice ease into seven weeks straight of school, school, school with a side of skiing.
Before it gets warmer it will get colder. I dare say the sub-zero temperatures are plotting somewhere in the Arctic Circle, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting citizens. Those negative digits are sneaky little numbers. They think they can fool us with a forty degree day here and there, but my bones remember the cold. Each joint whispers to me, “Saraaaah, winter is coming,” or maybe I’ve just read too much Game of Thrones. Either way, it makes for a good headline: Her Joints Told Her Not to Go Outside, But She Didn’t Listen and Look at Her Now. If this was Westeros, I would die, then be resurrected only to die again. Probably for good, but who really knows? Since this is America, however, I will likely just catch a minor sickness or two, think my ears are going to freeze off, and complain incessantly about how cold I am.
January is funny month, stuck between December and February. Only the first day is anything of note. Here in fickle New England, January is time of very cold, cold, moderate, warm, and very warm. One never knows how the day will be. Could be snowing, could be raining. Could wear shorts, could wear snow pants. Really, the possibilities are endless.
All last week it was wear-t-shirts-and-shorts warm. Then, the weekend hit and temperatures also took one. In a golf course of green, rolling fields there is a white patch. All of Massachusetts and Southern NH and VT are devoid of snow. Except for this one, jarring spot. Really, it does look rather odd, alone out there, a 1km track with snow machines shooting out a blizzard upon hapless cross-country skiers. January is like this awkward spot. It doesn’t quite fit anywhere, and it never looks or feels quite right.
