There is something about January that just makes me cranky. It could be the cold that creeps into my bones and makes them ache. Then there is the 10 minutes of pulling on layers for each and every venture into the great outdoors.
Perhaps it’s the snow that occasionally covers the land. If snow stayed outside, I might be OK with it. Instead, it attaches itself to boots, sneakers and, with a little mud going along for the ride, all over my clean floors.
Although my family of men has been well-trained to remove their shoes before entering the abode, at least one member will walk back into the house — just real quick — for one more thing and drag the frozen concoction in with them.
It could be January’s paperwork that taxes my patience. For one second, I am hanging tinsel and making merriment — and the next, I am adding this and subtracting that. These days, I am dividing by 12 while carrying the nine, and hoping against all hope that the checks and balances reconcile with everything else.
Then there’s the printer, which prints like it is her job the rest of the year, but becomes confused with January’s tax forms and suddenly thinks she is a shredder.
Not only does January involve snow and math, but — heaven, help me — it is always my fat month. Park me in an office chair and my fat cells multiply at warp speed. If January lasted more than four weeks, I swear I would weigh in at a robust 500 pounds.
To add insult to injury, each and every TV commercial contains a thin and svelte 24-year-old woman who tells a woeful tale about her recent weight gain of five pounds, followed by her — someone grab me a hankie — expansion from size 3 to size 4 pants.
I don’t know who thinks those commercials are what folks want to see this time of year, but I don’t like them.
One would think that one would keep her cranky self at home during the month of January so as not to spread her disgruntlement, but it just isn’t so.
The other day I took my “chipper” personality to the epitome of happiness —the IRS. I took a number and whiled away a half-hour sitting in a tiny room and listening to the voice of my inner person complain.
With 1099s and W2s in tow, I then went to our local grocers to share the love in a snowy parking lot. I loathed the thought of going in, but I was out of meal-replacement bars — and you gotta do what you gotta do.
Going into the store was one thing, but coming back out was quite another. My cart was so loaded that I had to push with all of my might to maneuver the thing through the unplowed lot. As I reflect on the moment, the image of the Grinch pushing his loaded sleigh uphill comes to mind.
I am sure that has nothing to do with the common link of our discontent. Worse yet, the checker overstuffed my bags, and they were breaking as I put them in the car.
I was about half done unloading the cart when I realized that I had forgotten to purchase the meal-replacement bars. And as I mentally kicked myself for my absentmindedness, I thought, “I could seriously use some caffeine!”
Then I remembered that I had taken an energy drink out of the cooler by the checkout stand, but I didn’t remember the checker handing it to me for easy consumption.
I went back in to get the meal-replacement bars and asked the checker, “Did I leave my energy drink in here?”
“Ah, no!” he said. “I put it in one of your sacks.”
Ignoramus!
So now I am back out in the car with the bars and desperately searching through $200 worth of broken bags and canned goods, looking for my energy drink — to no avail.
It later fell out of a sack with a couple of pies and my W2s, and the whole thing landed on that ever-loving dirty floor.
You know, I just might need to keep my cranky self at home for the rest of the month. Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].