I’m not eating my way through winter this year but that does not mean I love it. Around the middle of January, just after the massive snowfall but before the consistently freezing temperatures that forced the province inside indefinitely, I walked outside to my car before work. It was chilly, but not cold enough to snow, just cold enough to coat my truck in a sheet of half ice, half water that needed to be scraped off.
It was in that bleak, grey moment that I renamed the month. The name January conjures up images of pretty, youthful ladies and fairy tale landscapes. While January is actually a cantankerous grouch, hell bent on everyone’s misery, working tirelessly to suck the enjoyment out of life. From the dim cloudy mornings to the early dark nights and every sleet filled and ice cold moment in between, January is disagreeable.
Far from being a charming, young woman, January or Walter as I have now named it, is a crabby, old man. I chose the name Walter because I couldn’t imagine anyone under the age of twenty being called that.
January is the elderly man who shakes their cane angrily at any youths passing by, whose favourite hobby is telling people how incompetent they are, the one who pees on the floor beside the toilet and dares you to call them on it. That’s Walter and that sums up the experience of January. It’s a month that you wish would leave.
“Walter I hate you!” I shouted waving my snowbrush at the sky. My neighbours would have thought I was a crazy person had they been up but lucky for me frat boys sleep in until at least eleven am.
“Go home!” I bellowed “You’re not welcome here anymore!”
But Walter, like any unwelcome guest hunkered down, feeding on my generosity.