“Well, it was fun while it lasted.” – An Arctic Dwelling Anonymous Person
January 2, Whenever.
Well, we’re not sick of our winter coats yet. There’s the upside. That usually happens sometime in March, if I’m not mistaken. January asks very little of us except that we show up layered and willing.
When I woke up this morning, I was about to put my eyeglasses on top of another pair of eyeglasses that I was already wearing. I have numerous pairs of Kate Spade glasses, plus cheaper ones scattered throughout the house, because my new bifocals don’t work. I turned 67 years old this past December. Aging has a way of sneaking into ordinary moments, quietly reminding you to slow down.
I am always telling my Consort to stop talking about getting older, but when he saw what I was doing, he laughed so hard I thought he might need a defibrillator.
“I have no problem whatsoever with my memory,” I admonished him.
“Do you remember that you’re a nymphomaniac?” he asked.
That exchange got me thinking about forgetting; names of friends, actors, movies we’ve already seen. We’ve discovered we stream the same shows again and again, and it doesn’t matter because we don’t remember them. We watch as if it’s the first time. There’s something oddly kind about that, like the mind offering us small do-overs when we need comfort more than novelty.
My Consort believes we forget so that we can have a clean slate for our next life. I have no idea when he became a Zen Buddhist, but it begged the question: if that’s true, what happens if you return as a cockroach? Would it matter if your name was Bartholomew? Probably not. Perspective, it turns out, is excellent for mental health.
Which brings me back to January.
January is not the best time, despite what the lifestyle gurus say. Some writers romanticize hygge, candlelight, cozy introspection, reflective winters. Musicians sing about frozen rivers and surviving December. I admire the sentiment. Personally, I relate most to The Bleak Mid-Winter. At least it tells the truth.
My winters have always been awful.
Winter was walking home from school in leaking galoshes, wrapped in Borg jackets in 1965 that didn’t breathe, leaving you cold and overheated at once. I’ve never enjoyed winter sports, especially skating, with numb toes and strained ankles. A cup of hot chocolate afterward was meant to fix everything. It never did.
The only time I ever tried skiing was in 1973 at Blue Mountain. This city kid was convinced by my friend Ren Baczek to ski between her legs before I’d even attempted the baby hill. I got stuck.
Blue Mountain. Blue, blue, blue mountain.
Years later, in Copper Mountain, Colorado, winter softened. I found myself on a film set, an actress, listening to the band Chicago while wearing a silver fox coat. I met a young Jim Carrey, who tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I was a gangster’s main squeeze. He didn’t ski either. He wore a Cowichan sweater and was charming. That kind of moment makes winter feel survivable, even generous. He lives in Hawaii now. I try not to take it personally.
I truly love Canada. But I think I’d love it more if they were serious about making Turks and Caicos our next province. There was a time in the 2000s when that idea floated around. I can’t remember exactly when, which feels appropriate.
January invites these thoughts. It’s a month that encourages gentler expectations, imagining warmth, rest, and the freedom to dream without committing to anything just yet. Even the idea of looking super in a bikini feels like a form of hope.
Can our government do something fun? Especially for those of us over sixty? A retirement gift, perhaps? Sunshine as a wellness initiative?
January doesn’t ask us to reinvent ourselves. It asks us to notice where we are, laugh at what we forget, and tend to ourselves with a bit more patience.
Please, Prime Minister, consider us.
Sincerely,
Your hard-working servant.
