I am wearing yellow today. A lemony, buttery yellow, a baby-chicken yellow, a spring yellow. I wear it in protest of wintertime. I wear it to call up the warm winds of a new season, hoping that old Aeolus will see me and be tricked into sending away the cold gusts from the North.
I tire so quickly of winter, of these dark months. Give me hours of sunlight, give me evenings reading a book on my roof, a bottle of something chilled in hand. Give me nights with the window open, give me days of languid perspiration, riding the subway for hours reveling in the air conditioner on board.
In the early months of the year, all I want to do is nest. Curl up by myself, hibernate, eat potatoes and yams to store up energy for the long stretches of night. I sleep too long, dropping off early and waking up late. I grow lethargic, knowing I have responsibilities yet dismissing them with the wave of a torpid hand.
My ally against utter inactivity is, as always, my corporate coffeepot. That, and the color yellow.