February used to mean something different.
Happy birthday, Abraham Lincoln—who told the truth even when it was wildly inconvenient, and who paid a steep personal and political price for believing all people were created equal.
Happy birthday, George Washington—kneeling in the snow at Valley Forge, praying not for a dozen roses, but for the survival of an entire nation.
For some time, it’s meant Black History Month—a time to honor the struggle, resilience, and brilliance of generations who fought for freedom long after Lincoln signed the paperwork.
But, like Christmas hijacking Jesus for Santa, February has become vaguely more about romance, vaguely about sales, and very specifically about cinnamon-scented bears the size of Saint Bernards. And, this year, it’s even about getting hammered on Mardi Gras.
Our forefathers gave us a republic—if we could keep it. We gave them… a long weekend and a clearance rack.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not here to shame anyone’s longing to please their sweetheart. I’m just saying we’ve gotten a little confused. When Honest Abe gets reduced to a clip art top hat and George Washington’s birthday is mostly known as “That Mattress Sale Week,” maybe we’ve lost the plot a little.
I mean, I’ve seen actual commercials where retailers try to combine Valentine’s Day and Presidents Day. “Show them you care—with 20 percent off select recliners!” Hmm… George crossed the Delaware for this?
Somewhere between Monticello and eternity, Thomas Jefferson is furiously editing a pocket Constitution to remove “February” altogether and replace it with “Seriously?” He’s probably just relieved we haven’t added a Black Friday to every holiday, because nothing says “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” like trampling a stranger for a discounted flat-screen.
Still, maybe Mr. Jefferson would be a little proud. The backyard gardeners. The Little Free Libraries. The citizens with compost bins and Constitution-themed dish towels. Somewhere out there, someone is quoting him while canning jam—and honestly, that’s probably closer to his vision than how quickly Cupid-pink booted Santa-red out of the seasonal aisle on December 26.
We’re a country that has not-ironically consumed our own consumer culture. Every holiday is now a shopping season. We can’t commemorate anything without coupons. Christmas gave us Santa. Easter gave us marshmallow chickens. And February—the month of Lincoln, Washington, and Black Pride—has given way to Galentine’s Day, a surcharge in flower delivery fees, and anxiety about dinner reservations.
And let’s not forget Mardi Gras—our annual nationwide permission slip to eat, drink, and lose our minds before Lent starts. A tradition rooted in Christian repentance… now celebrated with glitter beads, king cake, and public indecency.
Do revelers even know they’re participating in a Jesus-based activity? Doubtful. But you’ve got to admire the commitment.
And just for fun—because Poppy loves a teachable moment—(big inhale) Mardi Gras is in February this year because the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Spring Equinox is Easter and Ash Wednesday is 40 days before that (and if you’re like, hey, it’s really 46—well, Sundays don’t count because they’re technically little Easters, even during Lent, because nothing says spiritual consistency like carving out a few cheat days from your own repentance plan) and Fat Tuesday is the day before Ash Wednesday—the last big blowout before the solemn season begins and that’s when people load up on beads and bourbon before pretending to behave for 40-ish days.
Whew! Clear as gumbo, right?
This year, I’m going to lay my iPad down next to the little cross on my piano and give up doomscrolling—because nothing says repentance like trying to give up anger for Lent. Now, if only there was a device I could channel my covert narcissism into and be rid of THAT for Lent, too.
Anyway, for a culture that loves to chant “Because, science” whenever it suits us, we sure don’t care what lunar-solar-calendrical magic puts the party on the calendar—just so long as we don’t miss the date to catch plastic beads and scream “Throw me something, mister!”
So maybe this month, in between the boxed chocolates and bead parades, we pause long enough to remember the men who gave us more than a long weekend. Maybe we try to be a little more honest like Abe, a little more resolute like George, and a little more forgiving like Jesus—especially when the world feels cold and we’re all just counting the days to Spring Break.
Because the older I get, I don’t want to think I’m getting crankier—just less impressed by shiny things wrapped in foil, and more appreciative of truth, sacrifice, and the kind of love that doesn’t melt under pressure.
Turns out, experience ages better than chocolate.