No really. Hear me out.
January is not a month for happy. I cannot recall a January in the Entire History of Ever when I have been this simply, deliciously happy. January is a month to be resigned to, survived, and tolerated, in the very best of circumstances. It’s a month for hiding under the covers with a really fat book and waiting for better days.
It seems a very bad policy to believe these are better days. A recipe for disaster and disappointment.
But today I want to dance the city sunclad, rainbow bundled against minus crazy temperatures. I want to sing stupid songs at the very top of my lungs and twirl barefoot in the kitchen while baking bread and making soup and chocolate chip cookies.
Even facing down a wee tiny please don’t let it get any bigger than it is now panic attack because school starts tomorrow and what have I done and what if I can’t do it and what if it’s too much and I fail I’ll definitely fail this is all a disaster the world is falling apart and we’re all gonna die …
… I’m still happy, and not letting it drive me into a huddled and terrified avoidance of life. There’s a secondary chorus, telling me to chill the fuck out and get a move on, because this day is magnificent and worthy of cookies and joy and everything will be fine and I’m not going to fail and even if I do things are still going to be Just. Fine. and I’ll get a job in a bakery or a bookstore and live happily ever after either way.
Clearly I’ve lost my mind. Finally, completely, and in the most obnoxious way possible.