Ode to the End of February

Multiple times this past month, I've asked myself the same question: "What is wrong with you?"

I've come up with the answer. February. February is what's been wrong with me. 

There have been good moments in February. For instance, my six-year-old neighbor brought me a handmade Valentine, and that ranks pretty high. Beyond that, the month has blurred. I've taught classes (so many classes), and graded things (so many things), and been asked "what's for dinner?" roughly 300 times, which makes no mathematical sense because February only has 28 days, but somehow I'm convinced I've cooked dinner 300 times. The repetition and grayness has worn me down despite my best efforts at optimism 

I'm ready for it not to be February.

And, in very good news, this desire will be fulfilled tomorrow. Tomorrow is March, and March feels more hopeful than February. Days will grow longer. Temperatures, slowly, will start to rise. March isn't out of the tunnel, but March at least hints toward the light.

So long, February, you short, yet long, little month.