January is a non-negotiable 495 days long every year, particularly if you live north of the Equator, especially if you live in the American Northeast. The Julian calendar is a lie and so is the New Year. You are still stuck with yourself and the bleak atmosphere of January.

December? December is Mary Poppins as your babysitter, all your needs met and your booboos kissed and your trees topped with sparkly angels, and January is the month when Mary Poppins blows away, gripping her snowy white parasol, and the only person who’s left to babysit you is Boo Radley who doesn’t know any jokes or games and just likes to sit in the corner and peer creepily out the window, waiting for this all to end.

I am not made for January. Thinking about it reminds me that Heaven is a place with unlimited cookie dough and an endless December. January is a box with a gray lid, and within the box is one of those plastic trays segmented by little compartments for various chocolates with mystery fillings. Only in the January box, there is no chocolate nor mystery. Rather, each little pod contains items you collect in January: overpriced gym memberships, kale chips, self-loathing.

Here is a list of good things that happen during January if you live in the American Northeast:

We remember Martin Luther King, Jr. and his legacy.
We get a day off work/school to remember Martin Luther King, Jr. and his legacy.
The Golden Globes are an event that happens in California and also on television if you have cable.
We then get to enjoy the Fashion Recap after the Golden Globes.
Some things go on sale. Like cars you don’t want to drive in January. Or TVs you don’t want to haul home in January.

That’s it. The complete bucket of January joy poured out. (But be sure to toss salt on it or else it will turn to ice.)

It seems the only people who are happy in January are Zumba instructors. They get to be inside and elevate their frothy endorphins while doing a hip-hop dance that I will try to follow but invariably just grapevine my way into a deranged Macarena.

Besides Zumba instructors, there is another human living in the American Northeast who does not struggle with the Jans/Febs.

I live with this human. His name is Husband. Husband is relentlessly chill. In fact, where hardship and woes are concerned, he is an all-around cool customer. I am told this is the mark of his birthright as a Canadian (show me a Canadian who is not earnest, I dare you), so even-keeled and fair-minded. This explains most of his immunity to the Jans/Febs.

There is another reason, though, that has nothing to do with his natural disposition and everything to do with his upbringing which was largely devoid of holidays, celebrations, birthday cakes, and all the trappings of my girlhood steeped in Americonsumerism. Where my December was a cozy hearth with stockings hung on the mantle, Husband’s was, you know, just a regular mantle, probably with the music stand he set up in front of it so his parents would believe he had actually practiced his violin (instead of watching “Days of our Lives” as was his weekday practice). He had no holiday letdown growing up and therefore he just soldiers into the barren month of January without expectation. Whereas my January is a snowglobe with snowflakes swirling around a bottle of anti-depressants and a lost mitten, Husband’s is a snowglobe with a peaceful tableau reminiscent of a Thomas Kinkade painting before they were mass produced by underlings.

Do you know anyone who has none of the post-holiday funk, none of the snow-capped mountain highs of the holiday season and none of the deep valley lows of the daunting new year? Isn’t it a little curious? What is there even to talk about in January if not lamentation? Perhaps I am getting the chorus wrong here, though, because Husband is the son of immigrants whose entire lives have been one, long, strong lamentation. His parents did their darndest to build a better life for their sons in a country that was as foreign in its culture, language and traditions as they could possibly imagine. They were not concerned whether they were going to have to pay express shipping on the shearling bathrobe they had embroidered with a monogram. They were interested in paying their rent and not being deported. That has a way of informing a boy who becomes a man who understands what a real crisis is. A crisis, contrary to what my Jans/Febs contend, is not Sephora running out of my favorite--actually, no crisis involves the word “Sephora.” Forget I ever mentioned it.

Much as I’m inspired by Husband’s non-subscription to the holiday and post-holiday tectonic shifts, I’m not really sure what to do with myself in this partnership. The balance in mental health tilts so far it hits the ground on my side of the marital teeter-totter after New Year’s Day. I can’t transpose his upbringing onto mine, nor would I want to; I can’t trade glasses and see it all anew. Ann Voskamp already stole my idea to write 1000 happy thoughts down and emancipate herself from the sads, (and she’s a Canadian, too, so you know mine would never be as earnest as hers anyway).

I can try on a new pair of perspectacles, though. In fact, I’ve been practicing since earlier this year when my old man got a bunch of baseball tickets. My stepmom Julie’s Christmas gift to Pops was a trip to see the Cleveland Indians play at spring training in Arizona. “This is strategic, see,” explained the old man, who specializes in being pedantic about life decisions, “My old mentor Jack once told me you should plan your trip in February because that’s what going to you through January.” The simple plan struck me as oddly profound. It’s not that dangling a carrot just a short distance from one’s nose is a brand new concept. But I am dazzled by the notion of manufacturing a personal holiday just far enough in the future to get us through. That is, not relying on a civil rights hero to have a birthday observed or for a bestie to decide to come for a visit, in order to incentivize our survival of the Jans/Febs.

When we’re young, we have to rely on forces outside of our control to spark our great expectations. We circle the date around the calendar as to when the junior high dance is scheduled, and we count down the sleeps until we get to leave for Girl Scout camp. Then we become grown-ups and I can only speak for myself in that sometimes it’s as though I forget that I have agency in how I plan my life. Sometimes I get so psyched about remembering to bring my reusable bags when I grocery shop (I AM THE GREATEST! ECO! HUMAN! EVER!!) that I forget that this is not the point of being an adult. Do better for yourself, Kendra. Do better for nine year-old Kendra who wrote in her diary “It’s Friday and I have to wait a whole two days for school again, what a bummerrrrrrr.” Do it for that girl who didn’t know what fun tasted like. Put the little totem of fun a few miles down your path. Then run your guts out in the race to get there, through the Jans/Febs, through tax returns, through snowbanks and through the pennant flagged car lots trying to sell Cadillac convertibles. Run your guts through all the bologna until you reach that marker. Then, do what Mark and Julie Stanton do at Spring Training.

For context: Mark and Julie are the most Midwestern people you will EVER meet. They make friends EVERYWHERE. Once, while on vacation in Savannah with them, Husband and I got up from the table for a few minutes at a restaurant and a couple of strangers sat down in our place, probably because they smelled the Midwestern on Mark and Julie Stanton. They could sense this was a friendly kind of couple. They had told Pops and Julie their whole life story by the time we got back to the table, leaving nothing out. Net net, Pops and Jules are at spring training. Naturally, they are SO PUMPED because of something they refer to as "Vendor Heaven," which, let me translate that Midwesternese for you: they are irrationally excited over strangers who carry over-the-shoulder satchels full of overpriced snacks to sell you while you watch sports. Pops and Julie text me that they are keeping their eyes peeled for one vendor especial.

One of my gal pals had been to spring training in the past and bore witness to this supposed snack elysium. She also told us about a particular beer vendor who was so memorable that my folks would likely know him when they saw him. She relayed that the vendor was “stout” and “intense.”

Well, given no other physical description, Pop and Julie texted that they had found The Beer Guy.

The next day, I receive a short video clip from Julie of a poor man’s John Wayne explaining his career trajectory as a beer vendor to his new confessor, Mark Stanton.

Me: “He’s exactly how I imagined him. Did you buy a cold one?”

Julie: “We bought a cold two. He explained to us that he’s battling exhaustion and peaked too early yesterday. Also gave us his itinerary for the next week. Gotta be in top form for the Giants.”

I share the video with my girlfriend who had been at spring training the year prior. She responds, Mmm, he’s not her beer guy. But that she now wants to hang out with my parents at an Indians game and compare notes about favorite vendors of the suds in a ballpark in Arizona.

This is how you sidestep JanuWeariness, it turns out. You buy yourself some tickets to a baseball game that will take place in February and look forward to meeting your beer guy. It doesn’t matter if he’s not someone else’s beer guy. It doesn’t matter if you don’t drink beer. Just embrace him or her, embrace the experience, and boom! Lookathat. It’s already March. Home run.

Ann Taylor occupies two floors in Boston’s Faneuil Hall historic shopping plaza. On the second floor, there are narrow shafts for window displays that are only wide enough for my 23 year-old petite body to stand very still. Problems ensue when I am tasked with dressing one of the mannequins (size 2, all of them, because when have you seen a mannequin holding a hamburger?). My managers at Ann Taylor never say, “Oh, Kendra, can you go simply drape this fetching scarf around the neck of a mannequin upstairs?” They never ask, “Could you be a dear and quick like a bunny change out the broche on that one’s blouse up there?” They are prepared to exploit me for their big window dressing asks, like a child with tiny fingers taken out of school to sew sequins onto gowns. Only I am being paid a fair wage. And am not denied an education. (Forget the child labor comparison. I was being hyperbolic.) My managers see that I am scheduled to work and order the full rack of tweed blazers steamed and for the mannequin in the upstairs windows to don the new angora turtleneck and wool pants with no zippers.

I am a visual assistant at Ann Taylor in the hours before the shop opens. Except I am not assisting anyone, per se, besides the mannequins out of their naked Barbie doll ignominy and into the season’s latest couture. This early shift is an absolute idyll for an introvert. It’s so peaceful up in the window shaft. I get to watch the cobblestone paths of this Boston tourist destination come alive. From the second floor window, I see a queue of New Bostonians preparing for their citizenship swearing in outside of Quincy Market. I observe flocks of pigeons pecking at last night’s stale popcorn. I wrestle the mannequins and watch the sun come up. The best and worst part is: not a soul bothers me.

So when I get stuck in the window, no one can hear me banging. The door to the window shaft has suddenly swung shut and I cannot seem to bump it open. I knock on the window, but no one looks up from below on the cobblestone because it is mainly just pigeons and a hungover security detail. Actually, no. That guy doesn’t work security. He’s a leftover from Cheers last night. No one inside the store can hear me yelling, because it is just the manager and I and she is a volunteer gospel choir director, so she is most likely opening up the cash wrap downstairs and practicing, “I Surrender All” while I am upstairs singing, “Here I Am, Lord!!” and hoping that a merciful god/manager lets me out of here soon. I begin to think about how little air there really is in this window shaft and how sad that I may spend my last Christmas on earth with the Madame Tussaud’s rendering of my junior high nemesis and just as I begin to feel tears pooling, Nestor, the custodian, just happens to be swapping out a broom upstairs and hears my plight. Nestor does not speak much English and my Spanish is mostly garbage, but!! That day, Eso dia! He heard my cry for help and answered the call perfectly. I won’t be spending Christmas as a mannequin in rigor mortis after all. Praises be!

Kendra Stanton Lee

Kendra Stanton Lee

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Kendra Stanton Lee

JanuWeary

On dressing mannequins

Update: Greetabl experience

Kendra Stanton Lee