February is short and fat.

by Marge Pitts, February, 2000

None of my beloved chores—the ones I do outside—need doing. Absence makes the back forget what strain is. I miss hauling compost, squatting like a sumo, watching the sweat gleam off the tanned globes of my shoulders and biceps.

But there is no alternative to February’s fat stupor. What, I should join a club and go up and down steps that don’t lead anywhere? Lift heavy things and not carry them somewhere? Run around in a circle without being chased by insects?

I don’t embrace exercise. I embrace work.

And so, in the fat months when my beloved chores are buried in ice, I haul myself into idlenesss like a walrus on a beach. With the same gung-ho momentum that throws me into action the moment the earth releases its sweet perfume of the thaw, its seductive odor that says Dig me—in February I obey the earth’s February command: Take it easy. Have another cookie.

February is a fat month. If only it weren’t so short.



at 4:55pm by