February makes me itchy. Both literally (I don’t think there’s an ounce of moisture left in my skin) and figuratively.
In fact, as the month wears on, I go a tiny bit bat shit crazy.
Why? Well, because it’s February. It’s cold. It’s cloudy. Even when the sun’s out, there’s not a damn thing to do outside.
So we sit inside. Playing the same games, watching too much TV and trying to explain to the little one why the flowers and the trees and the birds and the bees are still “sleeping.”
I start to notice all the things that are wrong with my house. The black hand prints at toddler level. The juice and cat puke stains on the carpet. The frayed couch arms and disorganized laundry room.
I long to fix it all. All of it. All at once.
I dream of ripping up the carpet and replacing it with wood (or at least fake wood).
Tossing the toy box in the garage and finding some sort of storage system that actually works.
Repainting, well, everything.
Or, better yet, selling the darn thing and starting over.
Instead I download another Dora game for the kiddo.
Then it’s time to go to work, where I spend my days in an office full of other sun starved, coughing people. I stare out the window at the highway and imagine packing up the family. Of hitting the road, bound for…somewhere.
The soothing whisper of palm fronds calls to me.
The ocean’s roar echoes in my brain.
I can practically feel the sand between my toes.
But then an account type reminds me of an upcoming deadline and the dream fades.
I count down the hours of the days, the days of the month, and I wait.
Spring will be here soon. The itch will fade. But until then, I remain just a little bit restless.