I once heard it defined as "The six-month long depression between January and March. Suicide month." I get it. February makes my soul weary and my heart stop believing that spring will ever get here. I am having crocus-envy. The weather has been mindbogglingly cold and disgustingly gray, but not really sufficiently miserable to justify my complete disgust with this stupid month. It's just old. Gloves and hats are becoming pilled and annoying. Scarves are a pain. And I know there are people who would be very grateful to have warm hats and gloves and scarves, and I do my best to share. But I'm still sick of needing them. I need more sunlight than I am getting. A lot more. Coming home in the dark makes me feel I have missed the whole day.
Valentine's Day is a Hallmark holiday at best, even though I've had the same fabulous Valentine for over a quarter of a century. If I were a teacher I'm sure I'd be counting the moments until the vacation week. But I'm not a teacher. And I'm counting the moments until March.