Yes, Christmas is over.
The land flails wetly like an engorged sponge under a sky the colour of a pound shop cotton ball dropped into a puddle.
The populus moves meekly through the motions, apprehensive of the non-elasticated waistband, blood sugar recalibrating via a more manageable fuel source of steamed greens and brown rice, (whether or not one is partaking in Veganuary).
Hefting pimpled and slightly wobblier flesh from bed to work to sofa, it is hard, and joyless, and frugality ensnares every decision from the own-brand chopped tomatoes to the spaces left to linger in the dark, because the brightness burns so much more than just light.
Tenners, I’m talking about. And twenties.
The revellers have already out-revelled themselves by 6am on January 1st, drumming up the New Year’s Eve hype to a supersonic pitch weeks in advance, neon feather boas destined to be caked in sick, sequined pants that glisten all the more when soaked in urine, high-proof liquids quivering in their bottles, gullet-bound.
But the love for celebration is real! The gathering in thousands to the central squares… the fireworks and music, the pyrotechnic majesty… the light shows that took months to orchestrate are real, the razzle-dazzle, fizz and frazzle—suggestible and glittery—all real.
The chanting: 10, 9, 8, 7, 6…,5, 4, 3, 2, 1…
Then… the nothingness. All too real.
Those who thrashed and sang and laughed and roared the New Year in will, from 6am on New Years Day, be the ones to then loudly proclaim how January is a scourge.
How dare it!
It’s depressing… the calendrical equivalent of poking yourself in the eye with a mascara wand.
They hate everything now. “Go away,” they say.
Well, charming. What about us? The January birthday squad, who would firstly like to point out the lunacy of making such an ungodly fuss about wildly celebrating the first minute and fourteen seconds of the first day of the new year before spending the WHOLE NEXT 30 AND ELEVEN TWELFTHS DAYS COMPLAINING ABOUT IT.
Things can either improve or worsen during March, which is worse than things just getting worse, as we are beyond delicate by now, our mortal frames desperate for sunshine, or failing that, consistency.
Then along will come some weather ‘event’ with serious designs on paralysis (both of the social and freezing all warm-blooded creatures kind) like the Beast from the East.
Thank God for sledding.
Secondly, with apologies to the February/March birthday squad, February and March are the worst months of the year.
February is the month where winter really overstays its welcome with some heavy posturing in the form of dry ice masquerading as breathable air, snow deep enough to engulf a strapping four year old, the only cheering sound the starving songbirds spluttering to a frozen halt in trees that look like rejected auditionees for A Nightmare Before Christmas.
Or it rains. Every day.
Even the names are grating.
‘Feb-ru-ary’ sounds bitchy and cold-hearted (‘I’ll think you’ll find the ‘r’ is silent’). ‘March,’ the sound those New Year revellers make into the gutter, just before they get their stomachs pumped.
Look, we’re not asking for a rose garden. (Just as well-it’s entirely the wrong time of year for that too). Just presence. A willingness to get dressed and leave the cocoon of your winter pupae to come and be in the cocoon of ours for a few hours.
January has a bad rap for being a hard sell. However, it’s often beautiful. It’s new, and cold, and pioneering a whole year for us all.
Demurely, discreetly, the light is starting to return—sunsets and sunrises cracking the sky in trays of scorched satsuma, light’s rareness enhanced by its distant richness, streaking through pillowed clouds like salted caramel running through thick cream.
January babies are born into wildness, in snowstorms or rainstorms, still adjacent to the festive fug, during a time when the dormancy of winter still holds allure, quiet and still as a filled lung.
You cannot get newer than a New Year baby, we are the first in line.
Absolutely no one else agrees with this.
So, who’s ready for a party?
No one.
“I’m skint”
“I’m fat”
“I’m going vegan”
“I’m doing ‘Dry January.’”
Yes, the pressure of popularity looms large on the January-born.
We have limited choices. Here they are:
2. You make a massive fuss.
Look this is not okay, I make an effort for your birthdays, I didn’t choose to be born this month, you have to come out or bear the brunt of my smouldering resentment FOREVER.
This is not advisable for increasing popularity. I’d pull this once a decade, at most.
3. You launch off far, far away to do idiosyncratic and expensive things in warm climates with your richest friends.
This comes with a hefty side-serve of environmental and socio-economic guilt as it invariably involves aeroplanes and excludes most, if not all, of your friends.
4. You pretend your birthday is another month.
I can’t bring myself to cheat on January, even with May, who I’ve been having adulterous thoughts about for years, but if you can live with the knowledge that it’s not real, that’s not how old you are and your entire existence is a sham, then by all means, be a happy liar.
5. You take yourself away.
Yoga retreat, jerky-making course, paragliding—these things should also be cheaper at this time of year and you may also meet other people with January birthdays, which brings me to my final tip…
6. Find your squad—i.e. people you like and want to spend time with, who also have January birthdays.
Double up on non-landmark birthday parties (landmark birthday sharing may make you sad and angry, which is not very festive), apply double or even triple pressure on recalcitrant friends, be around other people who are UP FOR CELEBRATING because you ARE worth it.
Give Dry January the wet slap it deserves. And a very happy birthday to you!
Many thanks to Juno Brown for this guest post.
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