It’s a wonder I’m writing this column.
First I had to lift my hands. Then I had to will my fingers to move across the keyboard.
Like the rest of us, I have been suffering through the blahs of January 2022, possibly the blah-est of all Januarys ever.
Fraught with the usual post-Christmas, post-resolution letdown, to this year’s notoriously SAD month, we add the terror and confusion of yet another COVID-19 surge, along with a lingering Arctic blast that has seen much of the country scurrying to the back of the cave for shelter.
Into the mix, in my case, add a bout of painful sciatica, and I have been for the last month a lumbering moose with the motivation of Eeyore.
I am not typically a defeatist, nor a winter hater, mind you.
I recall the first winter 25 years ago after my husband and I moved the family from sunny Southern climes to northeast Ohio near Cleveland, the sixth cloudiest city in the country.
Determined not to suffocate existentially or otherwise, I began a daily ritual of holding my hands to the sky and pretending to part the clouds like Moses. This reinforced the fact that a blue sky and sun were waiting for me when those giant cotton balls I dreamed one night I was choking on really did move out of the way.
Certainly during long stretches of wintry weather over the years, I’ve devised other season-embracing survival tools, from quilting, coloring and hibernating in front of the fireplace, to sitting at the window meditating on the unique nature of snowflakes, to experimenting with soups and teas, listening to “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear” well past the 12 days of Christmas and wearing turtlenecks.
This January, meanwhile, as the snow climbed up my door jamb, as every time I stood, I felt like I was being stabbed, not to mention the pain of COVID isolation, not to mention daily panic over whether my runny nose is allergies, “just” the flu or a deadly virus, I’ve grown weary of pretending the sun is always shining.
How many of those pricey coloring books can one budget sustain, anyway, especially when I already spent $100 on COVID rapid tests only to learn two days later the government is finally giving tests away for free?
I recently found other mostly experiential tools for the January 2022-weary, many of them been-there-done after two years of pandemic, itemized in the January issue of Vogue magazine’s “This Year, the January Blues Seem Turbo-Charged—Here’s How to Banish Them."
One idea: Breathe.
That does help me stay alive.
Two: Let the sun shine in.
That won’t work here.
Three: Exercise.
Not so much when you can’t lift your leg without screaming.
The article also mentioned, FYI: Be still; reward yourself; read; express gratitude; focus on the present; identify your thoughts and feelings; try something new; focus on diet; relax; seek professional help; take a dose of positive emotion; increase your tolerance of uncertainty; stop worrying; find the balance; breathe in joy; connect with people.
The thing about these recommendations is they have to start with motivation, kind of like the first step to getting rid of a problem is acknowledging you have one.
The blah month of January may be the worst month for acknowledging problems with the blah month of January, much less finding a cure, especially now that Jan. 17 has come and gone.
This day, known as Ditch New Year’s Resolutions Day, marks the point at which most Americans have forsaken all those promises we made at midnight Jan. 1.
When all is said and done, we might just have to grin, or maybe frown, and bear January, which, by the way, in 2022 is not ending the way the pandemic prognosticators hoped.
While this latest COVID surge was originally predicted to peak with the end of January, it’s looking more like mid-February now. This, I suppose, could be considered hopeful, considering the month of February includes Valentine’s Day, the universal day of love, which we know conquers all.
It’s also the month, however, of National Do a Grouch a Favor Day, National Don’t Cry Over Spilled Milk Day and Groundhog Day.
Whether shadows or light emerge triumphant, only time and Punxsutawney Phil will tell.
Meanwhile, if February fails us, come March, we get to celebrate National I Am In Control Day.
As if.
