If March goes out like a lamb, why is April an 800 lb gorilla sitting on my chest wearing a jaunty floral scarf?
April arrives before I’m ready, every year without exception. I suppose you could argue that it’s the first of all months to truly sneak up on us with the exception of January 1, but only because we spend far too much time in advance fetishizing the harbinger of new beginnings to come on that day.
If January 1 is optimism, April 1 is a body blow to all my tender parts
April is the precise month at which we no can officially longer say “It is early in the year.”
(And yes, it is official. I declare it so.)
January brings all the hope of manifesting magical things. You will get your bills in order. You will follow up with so many friends! You will set out on a new exercise regimen. You will stop keeping cinnamon Pop-Tarts in the house. You will drink less wine and more water, get more sleep, read a book a month. You will floss. You will finally donate those bags of outgrown coats and winter boots to Goodwill. You will produce less food waste, using up every too-soft, walnut-colored, over-ripe banana in a batch of wholesome banana muffins. You will meditate. You will make the bed. You will lose your temper less and listen more. You will fix things that need fixing.
You will write.
A novel! Poetry! A Substack twice a week! Whatever it is, you will do this thing, you say to yourself on January 1.
But new habits take time to set. January gets so busy, what with all the other new habits competing for your time and attention. February is cold and short and dreary and who has the energy to do things when there’s like 14 minutes of light each day. March gets frantic with all those to-dos you need to catch up on from January and February.
And then it happens.
April.
The month you can no longer reassure yourself, “it’s early in the year! I have plenty of time!”
April doesn’t even come in quietly and considerately, gently tapping you on the shoulder while you sip your morning coffee and catch the date at the top of the NPR Up First podcast; it smacks you in the face with some godawful prank that you fall for, then laughs at you because ha, you didn’t remember it was April 1 did you.
Even if the prank was a really good one.
April is the second quarter. (Q2’24 for you business types.) April is tax month. April is oh God please tell me we’re not out of Zyrtec. April is “my kids have how long to bring up their grades before the end of the term?” April is the triceps that still look like the December triceps and just in time for strappy dress season.
For me, April is the reminder that those best-laid New Year plans and resolutions didn’t quite stick, you think as you quietly drop that squishy brown banana into the trash.
I don’t mean to sound so cynical.
April is also tulips and hyacinths, ephemeral irises, and velvety peonies. (God, I love peonies.) It’s those green-blue berry baskets at the farmers market filled with strawberries, and bundles of asparagus that don’t use up the entire $20 bill you grabbed before you ran over. It’s a high of 62 that backs you up as you try to rally the teens out of bed before noon on the weekends. April is sunlight past dinner. April is open-toed shoes, open windows, and “just a light sweater should be fine.”
It’s not the beginning of the year. I’ve missed that boat. But I this year in particular, I need it to be the beginning of something.
Something good. Stable. Hopeful.
This morning, April 1 was kind to me.
Here is one of the first things I saw as I scanned Instagram, my daily morning ritual to reassure me that the world is still here and has some beautiful things in it. (At least if you follow the right feeds.)
Morgan wrote:
Where in your life have you been holding back?
Where in your life have you been wanting to let go?
Where in your life might you be able to give energy to things you’ve been meaning to focus on?
There is no way of knowing what every day ahead will look like, but that doesn’t mean you can’t think about what good things might be possible.
You know I’m not a big fan of inspirational quotes, generally speaking. But I will always take the essential reassurance that good things are possible.
Maybe you needed this one too.
Liz Gumbinner is a Brooklyn-based writer, award-winning ad agency creative director, and OG mom blogger who was called “funny some of the time” by an enthusiastic anonymous commenter. This was originally posted on her Substack “I’m Walking Here!,” where she covers culture, media, politics, and parenting.
Header photo by Daria Gordova on Unsplash.