I can’t find a better word to describe it — the way I feel and not just about the 20-something degree temps or the entire month of February or anything involving underwire (or a zipper) … but everything.

Spending my days cooped up in the house all day, day in day out with a tiny human who thinks pants are optional and spends most of his waking hours crashing and bashing things, (I’m starting to think he’s maybe developing some sort of Hulk Complex) has left me largely in a state of languishing (and sweatpants). I can’t be bothered and so many things that used to bother me just don’t anymore.

I don’t know if it’s normal, all this meh, I have to be honest. The same way I’m not sure if other people have to run their dishwashers three times over or write directions in the form of disturbingly detailed diagrams for the postal service … three mailboxes, about 13 different last names. Finally I slipped the guy a $20 and hoped for the best or at least some of my mail in the right box at least some of the time, which is honestly probably the best case scenario.

My older daughter’s just finally put a bow on the whole college acceptance thing and so likely will not have to spend the remainder of her days stalking the mailman or camping out by the three boxes with the 13 different last names. It’s a big exciting time and one that no longer involves accurate or prompt postal delivery … the next stage of the game, the next chapter of life, the next however many years of being saddled with debilitating debt, wishing you had chosen something other than a liberal arts degree or at least a husband with a trust fund.

But all kidding aside, I’m so proud. My husband is so proud. My younger daughter? So proud apparently she spread the good news to the entire town of Wilton that her sister was going to Harvard and okay, maybe she was three letters off and one letter short and just a letter jacket away from an entirely different school in an entirely different state …

But the point is that finally, finally we had something to celebrate, something “the opposite of meh,” I thought as I pulled into the driveway, almost taking out the three mailboxes and possibly the postman in my haste. Then came the real joy, shuffling along the great tour de skate that was now our driveway, remembering in two days it’s Groundhog Day — but isn’t every day Groundhog Day? Isn’t every day just me shuffling along the ice, trying to get the sleeping baby who’s not a baby anymore inside before a dog barks or my neighbor cruises by on his quad or the phone rings and it’s Middlebrook again. Those poor nurses. You know, at the very least, someone should really slip them a $20 because I can guarantee no one is getting paid enough to watch my daughter feign another headache.

So maybe in hindsight the most riveting part of my day was going to the gynecologist — or I should say by the time I actually saw the gynecologist. Side Note: Why is it that, (even pre-Covid), I spend, like, three to four times waiting as I do actually seeing the doctor? Nothing like a five minute run down on the joys of peri(meh)nopause (don’t get me started) and some procedure that possibly involved the use of an extra long pair of tweezers and a pharmacy’s worth of preemptive Advil to get the party started, people.

And so maybe the rest of my day wasn’t so eventful either … think, shopping for a new toaster and “helping” someone with her essay for reading which basically just meant her interrogating me about a book I’m not even sure I read over 30 years ago and having some very hazy details to offer. Honestly, if I didn’t want to drown myself in a bottle of Bourbon before, having the misfortune of having to recall Hatchet certainly sealed the whole deal for me. Especially since I’m pretty sure I just confused it with and recounted the entire first season of “Lost.”


This too shall pass, this long winter when the anticipation of watching an oversized rodent emerge from a hole and predict the next six weeks of weather might be as good as it gets, but for now at least, there’s not much to write home about.

Columnist Lesley Kirschner grew up quiet, in the woods, and devoid of siblings so her hobbies quickly became reading, writing, and talking to inanimate objects. She also spent a considerable amount of time doing voice-overs for her dolls and watching too much daytime television–channel 3, sometimes channel 8, if the weather was good and the antenna wasn’t acting up. She was in attendance at school, graduated from a very much not notable college not worth mentioning, and was transplanted to Wilton with her husband, Ambler Farm‘s Farmer Jonathan and their (baby makes) three children almost a decade ago. Although she never quite found her calling in life, other than perhaps the doll voice-overs, which in hindsight were eerily convincing, she’s happy to try her hand at writing and is thankful for the support and community she found on Facebook’s Buy Nothing Wilton. Lesley realizes while this is all very exciting, she’s not winning a Pulitzer so she’ll wrap it up and be quiet. She’s had a lot of practice.

One reply on “Wish You Were Here: Roses are Red, February is Blah”

  1. Once again Leslie, much appreciated. I read ‘Hatchet’ when my son did, when he was in middle school. It’s definitely a must read if you’re thinking of trying out for ‘Lost’ or ‘Alone’ in the near future, to change things up a bit. I mean, you’d have great content for more essays for us to read during the long, cold month of February.

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