Do you care that I resolve to drink more water in 2012? Be more affectionate with my husband? Save money, get Ozzy to sleep in his crib, sail? Cause I hardly do and I'm me.
I do not much care for January. A cold month known more for what it is not--the holidays, spring, awesome--than for what it is. Incidentally, I think of the word "socks" whenever I hear the phrase "it is what it is" because I once thought the phrase in Spanish "es lo si que es" was pronounced as one would spell out the word "socks," s, o, c, k, s, until my Colombian friend told me it was actually pronounced "sahla-esquilalah-sexy," or something that sounded nothing like what I thought it did. I also think I've told you that story before which is apropos of January, a month made of stories you realize you've already told halfway through the telling. Socks, I say.
But I know I've not told you this: tonight on the bus I had the indescribable urge to pinch the woman sitting next to me. Hard. She sat down while talking on her phone, saying loudly that she was getting sick, had a sore throat, hack hack, fuck, sniffle, jabber jabber, phlegm, blah. So I squeezed my eyes shut and tried very hard not to breathe her in for 9 miles, thinking that surely closing my eyes accounted for something seeing as how they're mucous membranes and all. Also? When you think to yourself do not touch your face, whatever you do, just don't touch your face, suddenly your nose will itch and your lips will actually kind of quiver.
I am not good at public transportation. Or January. Or speaking Spanish.
28 days until February.
"In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer."
Camus & Susannah