Dwain Northey (Gen X)

February arrives like the calendar equivalent of an apology text. It’s short, awkward, and clearly wasn’t thought through. Here’s a month that’s supposed to hold love (Valentine’s Day), history (Black History Month), and somehow the emotional fallout of January—yet it only gets 28 days. Twenty-eight. Unless, every four years, we remember February exists and toss it a bonus day like a pity cookie. “You good now?”

There’s no real logic to it. Other months sprawl out with 30 or 31 days like they earned it, while February feels like the intern of the Gregorian calendar—overworked, underpaid, and constantly reminded it’s replaceable. We crammed romance, remembrance, and resistance into the shortest month and said, “You’ll make it work.”

And just to really underline how unserious we are about February, we kick it off with Groundhog Day. A holiday centered around a rodent making a meteorological guess that means absolutely nothing. Shadow? No shadow? Six more weeks of winter? Buddy, it was already going to be winter anyway. This isn’t forecasting; it’s vibes.

So here we are: a month that feels like an afterthought, pretending to be meaningful while running on borrowed time. Blink and it’s over. Which, honestly, might be the most February thing of all.