Thursday, January 31, 2013
A few years ago, I spent January 31 at the beach. It was windy and overcast. My housemate and I laid our blankets too close the industrialized port and wished for summer too early in the year. After an hour or two, we gave up hoping for sun and shook the sand off our blankets and shoes and walked to the car. It was a Sunday afternoon, so I called my mom, and we both lamented the short January days and how long February can feel, even though it's the shortest month. With a sigh in her voice, she told me how she'd meant to start walking in January, but the dark, cold mornings don't exactly encourage those kinds of new years resolutions. "Maybe I'll start tomorrow," she said, with a ray of hopefulness warming her voice like the faint sun on late winter days. February 1 felt like a new chance. Only one month lost.