November is my least favorite month.
It’s dreary, gray, cold and, except for two legal holidays, has nothing good to offer.
Sure, some people might say that November is almost the holiday season. But the key word in that sentence is almost. Despite what the stores and commercials would have us believe, the holidays don’t start until after Thanksgiving.
In other words in December.
If I were independently wealthy and didn’t have to work, I would spend the entire month in my house because hibernation is the only rational response to November.
I tried it out this past weekend. I stayed home from noon on Friday until I had to go to work on Tuesday morning.
That’s 91.25 hours, for those of you who are counting.
I took a walk every day, but other than that I didn’t leave.
I read, wrote, cleaned, completed household projects, napped, spent time on ancestry.com. All sorts of things that I now realize make me sound like a little old lady
And I loved every minute of it.
I suppose eventually I would get bored and need to go somewhere, do something outside the house. But I wasn’t at that point after 91.25 hours.
When people talk about winning the lottery, they often speak of trips and vacation homes, of beaches and exotic locations.
Not me. If I won the lottery I’d just boycott November.
Then maybe I’d spend December on the beach.