The Cruelest Month

I love a keen old New Yorker cartoon so much that I had it turned into a coffee mug. The cartoonist, the great Roz Chast, shows a “Year at a Glance” pie chart in which January and February take up over half of the year, and each consecutive month occupies a diminishing amount of perceived time until November and December are depicted as indecipherable slivers. 

This nicely sums up my feelings about the month and the year ahead. On January 1, some of us go from festive and fabulous to forlorn and unfulfilled at the stroke of midnight. No more ripping open presents, peppermint mochas in festive Starbucks cups, holiday playlists, dressing to impress, drawing friends and family near, and generally going from one incandescent moment to the next.

 

A lot of lived life has persuaded me that the poet TS Eliot was wrong: January is the cruelest month, not April. (Look at last year’s January trend, the sadistic and impossible “75 Hard” regimen for making over mind and body, and tell me otherwise.) By April, we should be nicely humming along and have abandoned our foolishly ambitious resolutions, thank you.

 

But why should the mere calendar hold such sway over mood? I am not alone in experiencing the cursed January blahs, yet must we give in every year and sacrifice a sixth of life? (Yes, I am throwing February under the bus here, too.)

 

Last year, a New York Times essay greeted me with this headline: “January’s Secret: It’s the Best Month.” The Times cited a return to the regular rhythms of non-disrupted schedules, travel savings, Dry January, and other cleansing rituals. The piece gamely tried to argue that January is precious, not a precipice—but it failed to persuade this inveterate January-hater that the first month is anywhere near as enjoyable as the last two.

 

Despite all my whining, I have some coping strategies that bring light and cheer into January. 

 

I routinely buy flowers and a new houseplant or two for myself. Even though I don't need any roses, I keep a rose catalog on my desk—the pictures make me happy and remind me of what’s coming.

 

Scented candles help—anything with a spa vibe.

I make sure the house is brightly lit.

 

I cook more. It satisfies me to channel my ennui into something productive—and edible.

 

I shun any resolution. New Year’s resolutions are for the self-defeating.

 

And I dream of when Joe and I will both be retired and escape to warmer climates. 

 

If all of this seems to pale compared to December’s riches, it does.

 

January is a time for dreaming of spring, gardens, and flowers, what life still holds in store, and who we want to be when we finally grow up. While it may take patience and grit to reach the year’s summit, the view from the base will have to do for now.

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New Yorker cartoon courtesy of The Cartoon Bank. Used by license.

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