What’s your favorite month of the year? Why?
January, actually December 26th. That’s when the world goes back to normal, and they stop playing all the same songs I’ve been hearing in the stores since October.
You can have too much of a good thing, and that is what they’ve done to Christmas, overdone it. I’m for the real meaning of our Savior being born, but people who don’t even care about that go overboard. It started in September with the Christmas decorations at the Home Improvement stores, and they are already up. Thanksgiving is next week.
It’s hard for introverts to process all the attention. We also know that for most people, it is fake. They act all happy and joyful, then get in their cars and cut you off and give you the finger.
All the production around it excites some, but drains introverted people. By the time we get to Christmas, our social battery is dead, and it’s hard to function. Look at the post a few below this on introvert hangovers, and that is what I’m talking about.
The holiday season is tough for some. Fake joy doesn’t make up for it. Too many people takes it out of me and I can’t wait for it to be over.
Delusions of Adequacy 
Here on the Florabama coast, it’s gotta be March. No more freezing temps . . . maybe a light frost or two. Sun feels really good on the T-shirt without the oppressive stifle of Jul/Aug.
Rain is honest, energetic, real water coming down with purpose . . . not that drizzly shit we get in Dec that hangs around for days or that raging ‘cane that comes in Sep/Oct and blows off roofs while ruining your furniture.
Days in 70s, nights in 60s. Lawn rebirths, giant camellias blossom all over the place, sweatshirt at daybreak, T-shirt at noon, no skeeters yet, BLT seems logical again, iced tea wunsinawhile, and no need for either heater OR A/C.
Yeah, rebirth, renewal, regenesis, restoration . . . mid-March to mid-April. T.S. Eliot got it kinda wrong with his “April is the cruelest month.”
Late March to mid April . . . ‘cuz of the energy . . . and it’s kinda like a roller coaster — you’re never quite so alive as when it occurs to you that life might be trying to kill you.
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