The Boss is prey for February's smarmy charms. Each time the temperature rises above 40 degrees, my naive little girl proclaims the arrival of spring. Little does she know that everything February gives gets grabbed right back again.
We all must carry some of The Boss's optimism. There'd be a mass exodus to Florida right around the time the groundhog emerged if we didn't delude ourselves just a little about the coming of spring. Still, I am predominantly pessimistic.
I know it behooves me to enjoy the warmth instead of bemoaning the tease, but I can't help hating February. She's just such a bitch. She's hot and cold and long and short. She's dead presidents. She's $50 for a pile of frozen roses. February is deep and dark.
If I am to embrace any of The Boss's budding positivity, it's going to be at the end of the month, when February cuts herself short. That very stuntedness may contribute to something of a Napoleon Complex, exacerbating the cruelness of her reign the whole month through, but it doesn't matter by the time the 28th comes along. At that point, it's over. She's done. And not a day too soon.
Only February can make March look good.