Hitting The Wall

March is my least favorite month on the calendar. With freakish regularity, March rolls around, I hit some sort of invisible wall, and I feel like I could just lay there, face-first in the mud. Just go around, people. Go around, is what the caption over my head would read. Everything seems more daunting for me this time of year. Given our track record, I really should just consider skipping March altogether. The chemistry between us just isn't there.

What I need is a vacation. A long vacation. A vacation that includes a bikini, blue water, and a drink with an umbrella. I've been thinking a lot about one particular vacation we took to the Yucatan Peninsula a few years ago: a woman actually came to our hut to bathe me in honey on that trip. Honey. I think that if there has to be March on the calendar every single year, then it's only fair that I should have to spend the duration in a hut by the sea being dipped in honey. I have the sneaking suspicion that the closest I'm going to come is a trip to the grocery store and cleaning spilled honey off the counter.

April, you can't come fast enough.