Cabin Fever

I wonder whose terrible idea it was to put 31 days in December and January. That god probably felt so guilty that he decided to ease up a bit with 28 in February. Our calendar is all wrong. December, January, and February ought to have about fifteen days in each of them. May and October, our prettiest, most temperate months, ought to be 45 days long, maybe 50. This morning when I looked at the calendar, I thought, “This is terrible. You mean it’s only January 13^th? Really?” Don’t get me wrong; I like four seasons; it’s just that the witchy-ness of winter ought to last for just a few weeks, along with the sauna heat of August. Two weeks – that’s enough. Change is good. I’ve spent several weeks in San Diego, not to disparage California, but every day was the same – humid and foggy in the morning with the mist burned off by the sun at exactly 10:15 AM, then partly cloudy with a slight breeze for the rest of the day, followed by a calm, humid night. Every day. It was like – eating chocolate for every meal. I love the 4 1/2 pounds of dark chocolate my kids gave me for Christmas, but if that’s all I had for every meal, I’d go on a hunger strike after only two weeks. Okay, maybe two months. It is pretty good chocolate.

Two or three weeks of just about anything ought to be enough. We could have two weeks of winter in January, then two weeks of Octobuary, then maybe two weeks of early spring, then two more weeks of January, then Maybruary, and so on. You get the idea.

It’s not just the weather. Cabin fever means I’m really tired of looking at the same crack in the concrete of our porch every time I go in or out. Someone should fix that. It’s like the Newel post cap that Jimmy Stewart grabs every time he goes up the stairs in It’s a Wonderful Life. That brings up another problem. I love that movie, but every winter it has the same ending. Why the hell doesn’t someone fix it in version B so Potter gets caught with the $8000 he stole from Uncle Billy and is sent to jail where he goes crazy because he can’t control everything, and his unclaimed millions go to the state, and they use it to build more houses and a hill for sledding that doesn’t end in a pool of frigid water that could make a boy deaf? They could even afford to have sleds or toboggans available instead of those rusty old coal shovels. I also wonder why a little town like Bedford Falls can afford a high school gym with a movable floor over a swimming pool (and this was back in the days of black and white film), and they can’t plow their streets when it snows, and cars slide off into stately, old trees. Is that crazy or is it me? Cabin fever is a terrible thing.

Books help a little. Thank you, Emily Dickinson, for reminding us that there is no frigate like a book to take us lands away, especially if you have a little fire in the fireplace, a cup of hot tea, some chocolate and Pentatonix harmonizing quietly in the background.

The problem is that reading is like meditation – you can do it for an hour or so, but eventually it feels like solitary confinement. It’s all in your head. Then something else needs to happen – maybe a mousetrap to snap up in the attic, or a smoke alarm battery to run down and begin to chirp so you rush around the house to check for a fire, or maybe even a fluorescent under-the-cabinet light in the kitchen to pass its ten-year life and begin to flicker. Something needs to happen. Anything. Cabin fever calls with irking insistence.

Some days I walk to the nearby Crescendo Coffee and Music Bar, but even getting out that way becomes a problem. My Fitbit tells me it is exactly 3892 steps, counting the puddle on Edgemont Avenue I have to sidestep and stopping to talk to the crossing guard at the corner of Allen and Eton Ridge. It’s like being in the movie, The Truman Show, only I don’t have a boat. It’s all so predictable that I swear I’d even be willing to do something different like finish painting the trim outside our house if the paint wouldn’t freeze on the brush. That’s how desperate I am. Cabin fever is terrible.

That’s when the worst thing possible happens. My loving wife looks at me with great pity and says, “Maybe you need a job. Get out and meet more people.”

I love winter. Really I don’t care if it lasts for four months. There’s nothing better than hanging out in a cozy house. You can light a fire in the fireplace and eat a piece of chocolate – whenever you want. It’s great to recharge the batteries, to plan for the first trout fishing trip in the spring, to watch the birds fighting over seeds in the feeder you just filled, to wave at the mailman who dropped off some interesting bills today, to look at the sky and appreciate the fact that it’s not the same sky that appeared yesterday. Winter is a blessed month. It’s got Christmas and Hanukkah and Kwanzaa and Festivus-for-the-Rest-of-Us in it. I mean, what’s more exciting than putting up that aluminum pole before the airing of grievances followed by feats of strength?

If you’re one of those poor unfortunates, especially retirees, who suffer from cabin fever, just remember there is a remedy that works every time. All you need is for your wife to give you that look of pity and tell you to get a job and meet new people. Poof! Cabin fever gone – cured – defeated – boxed up and carted past that loose Newel post cap into the attic with that fantastic, beautifully-designed mouse trap protecting your house. Winter may be the best season of the year. I love it. I really do.