“The sky went hard and blue, the sun came out in real postcard style. I didn’t like it. Sunny days have always been more difficult for me than gray ones.”
That’s a character in Russell Hoban’s novel, “Turtle Diary,” and I could not possibly agree more. Which is why February, this lovely month that all of you sun-worshiping bozos like to complain about, is my favorite. I wait for it the way you pine for summer.
And I’m right, and I can prove it. You (and by “you” I mean everybody I’ve ever met or heard of) are sitting there caviling that it’s six weeks until spring and months before you can wear shorts and lie on beaches. You want it to be 85 degrees out there, don’t you? This is why you’re nuts. In the way of proof, let us consider for a moment the notion of “room temperature.” If 85 degrees were truly comfortable, we’d all keep our thermostats at the figure. Which we don’t-my sister excepted-because it would be so miserably uncomfortable. Just like it is everywhere in July.
You also want the sun to come out, all bright and happy, yes? This is also a mistake. In the way of further proof, let us also consider the lampshade, universally accepted interior furnishing, because if we took off the lampshades the blinding light would hurt our eyes. Just like the sun does in July. Which is when you will break out your Ray-Bans and turn on the air conditioning in the car, house, office, restaurant and everywhere else. Why? Because it’s hot and the sun hurts your eyes.
Unlike glorious February, perhaps the perfect month for human life as it ought to be led. A blessed time when it’s warmed up just enough to take long walks without your ears freezing and snapping off, but still cold enough so that the coffee and whiskey taste better when you stop. Cold enough to require a coat, which gives you pockets to carry all of your stuff without resorting to cargo shorts, a fashion item you don’t want to get me started on.
But you have. So . . . you can always add clothing to stay warm, but you can only, in civilized society, remove so much. And most of you, frankly, are removing too much. As a general rule, grown men in short pants shouldn’t. And grown men in short pants with giant cargo pockets with cell phones, car keys, Blackberries and MP-3 players bulging on their thighs tend to look like Field Marshal Montgomery in North Africa, which was not an attractive picture, even apart from the mustache. These same men are often, incidentally, found in the company of women sporting bare midriffs (because it’s so hot out), women who might, in a more aesthetically driven universe, have wisely reconsidered. You know who you are. Whom.
Where was I? Yes, the ideal climate for going outdoors. Just warm enough for those walks, but no danger of getting all sweaty in the process. An early-thaw month, blessedly free of jet skis and snow-boarders alike, just the ticket for solitary saunters along the lake. The beginnings of those wonderfully gray, 37-degree days with a nice protective mist to hydrate your skin and keep the crowds indoors and out of your way. The stores are empty and everything’s on sale. Plus no serious national holidays. February, in fact, features perfect holidays-one groundhog and one birthday of presidents so long dead that we feel no need to grieve, men whose memory gives us a day off without the onus of mandatory celebrations. No presents to buy, no turkeys to roast, no barbecues to attend, no long church services, no green beer. There is Valentine’s Day, but, since it’s our only holiday devoted to sex, it would be churlish to complain.
All this, plus cheap airfares to places I want to go, where the weather is also perfect. I just got back from London and Paris (I was working, OK?) No crowds, no Spandex, no annoying sunlight, no sweat. Everybody who owns cargo shorts was in Jamaica and assorted corporate warm-weather resorts, blistering on beaches and drinking light beer (don’t even ask), having paid extravagant in-season airfares to get there. And speaking of work, I’m willing to bet that more actual work gets done in February (see above holiday- and jet-ski-free period for reasons) than in any other month of the year. I may like those long walks, but most of you don’t, so you hunker down at your desks and accomplish something for a change. For which you have my thanks, if only because when you’re working, you’re not crowding the saloons and sidewalks-here or in Paris.
In fact, you’re going to be working so hard this month that you deserve a break. Take next Tuesday and have a little celebration, a personal Midwestern Mardi Gras. Celebrate Fat Tuesday, more aptly called Paczki Day here, in honor of the jelly doughnut. Eat one-eat a bunch-then get back to work for the rest of Lent and give up everything for 40 days. With any luck you’ll look better in those short pants when the weather gets ugly this summer.
