Maybe it’s something about March. When the ice is gone but the gray remains, the cold bites at your neck because you forgot to wear a scarf because it’s sunny — but upon closer inspection it’s that weak-ass sun piped in like tinny elevator muzak, the only cut-rate sun they could find and are trying to foist off on us like the Cabbage Patch my mom got me one Christmas that only had one shoe and was a boy doll, besides.
To me the most important holiday in March is First Nice Day. I know, I know, there’s St. Patricks Day. But First Nice Day is a Chicago holiday that doesn’t exist on any calendar, and usually someone on Clark St. hangs out the window of a second-story apartment and plays banjo and I don’t need to wear a coat. This year on First Nice Day I took a long lunch hour and walked over by the train tracks.
Now it’s back to regular March, and it’s enough to bottom me out. I feel like the prisoner in those movies who was given a bit of meat (a little bacon this time) in the usual gruel, just for added torture. If I indulge in extra existential crises, am cranky from too much or too little coffee, look at you with weary resignation instead of empathy, write in my journal a lot, stay in bed a little longer than average… well, it’s March.