Tuesday, February 1, 2011
february made me shiver, no cards to deliver
I sifted through forty years worth of family photographs in December to make my mom a schmancy calendar, featuring her grandchildren, siblings, and her beloved mother, whom we lost much too soon. The template I used enabled me to print everyone's birth dates, which was uber helpful. But in doing so, I was reminded that I have a lot of cotton pickin' birthdays, and there are more than one every month of the year. Except February. January kicks my ass with seven birthdays. I love celebrating them, don't get me wrong. In fact, I think it's my zealous, festive, persnickety passion that wears me down just a little. And the cake wreaks its own hazards. Harsh.
So February is a much-appreciated break from dashing to the post office, finding time for calls, wrapping, and just the fucking awkwardness that is gift-giving altogether in some situations. I have until March 9th to get the next card out, but how long does mail take to get to Afghanistan? Then twins, then, then, then.
While most people are trying to out-etsy each other for Valentines Day, I've got that covered with plenty of time before the frenzy starts. I would picture myself in a hammock somewhere, but I infamously cannot get out of them.
Of course I will forget all this halcyon of February when Hurricane October hits with eight birthdays on the 11th, and the rest of the month bursting at the seams too. But I have a strong sentimental attachment to extending birthday wishes. I hate the idea that people are too old to get cards, calls, and surprises. I love telling people that I'm glad they were born. But this month I'm setting my calendar to snooze.