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March gets mad props as months go

February 23, 2011
By Katharine Fronk
When it comes to months, their celebrity is tied to the holidays they hold. We note these increments that mark the seasons’ change for the events they symbolize not for the event — a unit of time — they are.

As a result, the October-November-December trifecta headlines as superstar of the Gregorian calendar. Promising autumnal leaves, free candy, dress-up, horns of plenty, wrapped gifts, first snowfalls, and holiday vacations, these three months capture our calendrical attention.

Fourth and fifth favorites no doubt go to January and July who herald the inauguration of the new year and barbecue, fireworks, and vacations. To fill sixth place? I propose: March.

For those in the north, perhaps its the tease of March’s temperate days yet unable to overcome winter’s cling that turns them off. For others, remaining post-holiday let down, or simply it’s the ersatz of other months that eclipses March.

But like the shy and attractive girl at a party, March waits to be noticed — her charm growing. (The anagram a coincidence? I think not.)

The first days of the month creep by and suddenly the world appears more green, yellow, and purple. We find ourselves feasting on a pastry-like cake in search of a tiny baby. Then without warning, we’re blitzed on a Tuesday afternoon, flashing body parts, with dozens of plastic beads around our necks. We awake Wednesday, hundreds of miles from Bourbon Street, and think: well that was fun.

As the days continue and Wednesday’s promise to never drink again evaporates into the drunk haze, so does sobriety. We may not be Irish, and yet we find ourselves donning mismatched shades of green and ordering a Guinness. Thinking I’m not Irish, I can’t be kissed, we imbibe. Soon, thousands of us — Micks, leprechauns, red heads, and everyone else — are parading the streets, leaving a green frothy wake behind. On the 18th as we sip a sobering coffee with a green-strained tongue, we think: well that was fun.

Looking for weekend plans, we opt to take it easy at a friend’s place. Munching on tortilla chips and queso dip, we think can’t we watch something other than basketball? It sounds like mice in war with all the squeaking shoes. An extra large pizza arrives at the door, a case of High Life appears on the table, and we soon find ourselves attempting to write Duke and Kansas on out-of-focus branching lines. The next day, thinking well that was fun, we check our e-mail to find an itinerary confirmation for one round-trip ticket to Houston the first weekend of April.

As we dredge through February’s last weeks adrift with the thought of nothing to look forward to, remember March. Her celebrations are myriad and diverse: Women’s History Month, first day of Spring, Ash Wednesday, Peanut Butter Lover’s Day ... and regardless of your sex, religion, interests or habits, March does not discriminate. Her bandwagons are ready and open for the jumping-on. Luckily, most of those bandwagons are transporting booze. In like a lion and out like a lush, I say.



Contact Katharine at

letters@graffitiwv.com
 
 

 

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