By Esther C. Baird, first published in the Ipswich Local News, January 24, 2024
We’ve talked about January before, have we not, Regular Readers? I am aware that I’m not at my most pleasant during this smudge of a month, this dark and cold space where hopes and dreams crawl into the too-early afternoon shadows and wither. I try to enjoy the snow on trees, the sun sparkling off ice, the joy over frozen backyard skating ponds, but I come up flat (like a flat white latte, only minus the caffeine, flavor, or warmth).
The holidays are over, the decorations are down (or, worse, not down) and there is nothing to look forward to except early darkness, grey skies, and potential driveway disasters looming with each forecast.
Also, everyone gets increasingly worked up about ‘Dry January’ — a month in which, instead of alcoholic drinks, everyone imbibes in water and smoothies and kombucha and is fantastically committed to good health (and, I guess, dryness).
It’s not my thing. January is dry enough. It’s so dry that there are places in our house where the paint contracts such that microscopic cracks become visible, making me think my house may tip over and fall into one of the many neighborhood ponds (also dry — more like weedy spots where winter ducks gather). My skin is dry. My hair is dry. My throat is dry. My eyes are dry. My brain is dry, dry dust.
I am the reason that gas stations have started installing those “touch here” spots on tanks so that the static charge that results from simply being alive in January doesn’t blow up a gas station. I walk past my own light switches at home, and arcs of blue shoot out and fry my fingers for doing nothing other than existing. In January. Spontaneous combustion has become my reality (while providing no additional warmth).
And I believe I’ve spilled enough ink over the years detailing my thoughts about all the dry sand our towns toss about like so much confetti — minus the parade, sans the party. There is just sand filling in all those newly opened cracks. We don’t use salt around here when it snows — salt that actually melts the snow — in order to save the whales, the chipmunks, our drinking water, our grass. Meanwhile, we are not saving my sanity. If I wanted sand, I’d go to Florida, where I’d also get moisture in the air.
So, as you can see my Dry January is off to big, static-charged bang. It’s a month of challenges. And I am not up to the task. In the midst of all this, our college-age daughter thought it a good idea to bestow upon us another challenge that I am not up to.
I give you the $2 Million Puzzle. This nightmare of a puzzle has no photo to follow, except that you know it’s a QR code of multi-colors. When you’re done, you scan it to find out if you won a million dollars, because two lucky, lucky people will … if luck is defined by sheer insanity and torture, because first you have to survive it. Only 600,000 puzzles were produced, and everyone wins something, though most people only win $1. You can’t be sure if a piece seems to fit or actually fits, and you won’t know until it’s done and your puzzle scans, or … doesn’t.You can’t know how many pieces make up the borders, or which way is up, down, or sideways. The infinite theorem of the ability of monkeys, given enough time with typewriters, producing Shakespeare doesn’t even apply. Monkeys couldn’t solve this if given a million years (a year for every dollar they wouldn’t win) and they probably would, more smartly, quit and move to Florida.
The puzzle is endless. It makes me yearn for the SLP (Stupid Llama Puzzle) that Regular Readers will recall from the pandemic times. It is January in puzzle format. But the catch is that you have to send in your completed QR code by the end of February. So, actually, it may be what we all have been waiting for: a way to endure January.
And that’s something I can raise a glass to. Cheers!