They say that February is the shortest month, but you know they could be wrong.
Compared, calender page against calender page, it looks to be the shortest month, all right. Spread between January and March, like lard on bread, it fails to reach the crust on either side. In its galoshes - and you'll never catch February in stocking feet - it's a full head shorter than December, although in leap years, when it has growth spurts, it comes up to April's nose.
However more abbreviated than its cousins it may look, February feels longer than any of them. It is the meanest moon of winter, all the more cruel because it will masquerade as spring, occasionally for hours at a time, only to rip off its mask with a sadistic laugh and spit icicles into every gullible face, behavior that grows qickly old.
February is pitiless, and it is boring. That parade of red numerals on its page add up to zero: birthdays of politicians, a holiday reserved for rodents, what kind of celebrations are those? The only bubble in the flat champagne of February is Valentine's Day. It was no accident that our ancestors pinned Valentine's day on February's shirt: he or she lucky enough to have a lover in frgid, antsy February has cause for celebration, indeed.