March is the darkest, dreariest month of the year. It is the month of death and rebirth and only one of the reasons most people look forward to April. It is the season of stoms, both frozen precipitation as well as strong, often violent, swirling winds, usually just enough to be annoying but all to frequently to be deadly. And generally, every day.
In March, it warms up enough to melt the permafrost enough to turn it into a gooey, soupy mess, but never warm enough to dry it out or make you consider foregoing that heavy coat, or those boots that keep getting sucked off your feet as you walk.
March is so depressing, the Irish needed to invent a drinking holiday in the middle to break it up (St. Patrick’s Day), Shakespeare bumped off Julius Caesar (beware the ides of March) and this year the Catholic faith has the death of their savior (although it usually falls in March on average anyway).
Even February gives up early when it comes to the arrival of March. This year we were saved by a luxurious extra day, but alas, even that was only an extra 24 hour reprieve.
So, I have decided, since nothing good happens in March anyway, to take the Stoic route, gird my loins, as it were, and forego sex for the month. Not just the intercourse part, not that I was having it reqularly any way. At my age, sex more that twice a year is a unique experience. No, I am giving all of it up. The masturbating, the stories, the pictures and video. All of it. Heck, I might use it as an opportunity to throw out a few things.
Why? Why not. As I said, it is already close to a normal state of being, why not take the next step. Maybe by April I might have a new outlook on life but first, I have to get through March. Now if only the sun would shine.
