In what felt like 55 days of January, we have finally arrived in February. February is often called the month of love, mostly thanks to Valentine’s Day. I’ve never really put much emphasis on the holiday, though, not because I dislike it or harbor any ill feelings toward it. My Valentine’s Days have always been perfectly fine. I just don’t fully see the point.
It’s the idea that love is supposed to be highlighted on one specific day of the year that feels a little odd to me. As if affection, care, and appreciation need a calendar reminder. Love shouldn’t be confined to red roses, heart-shaped boxes of chocolate, or a single dinner reservation squeezed between everyone else’s. Those things can be sweet, sure, but they aren’t the whole picture.
To me, love shows up in smaller, quieter ways. It’s in the casual check-in text. The “this made me think of you.” The shared laugh over something silly. The comfort of a hug when words don’t quite fit. It’s making time to catch up, listening without rushing, or simply being there, consistently, not ceremonially.
If anything, I like the idea of love as a year-round practice rather than a one-day performance. Less sparkle, more substance. Less obligation, more intention. And if February wants to remind us of that, then I suppose it earns its title after all. Though I do like getting some chocolate. That’s always cool.
I think the funniest part of this journaling-as-a-hobby renaissance is watching all the different paper people accidentally collide in the same corners of the internet. You’ve got the scrapbook aunties, armed with Mod Podge, emotional attachment to every receipt, and a deep belief that nothing should ever be thrown away. Then there are the junk journal nieces, feral and fearless, hot-gluing ticket stubs, cereal boxes, and vibes into something that looks like chaos but feels like art.
Meanwhile, the planner baddies are over here with their color-coded systems, perfectly aligned washi tape, and a strong sense of moral superiority because their handwriting is consistent. They’re asking questions like, “But where do you track your habits?” while clutching their mildliners like security blankets. And then, hovering slightly above it all, are the fountain pen girlies, debating ink sheen and paper GSM like it’s fine wine, quietly judging everyone who dares to use a ballpoint.
They’re all technically doing the same thing, writing things down, but the cultural misunderstandings are real. Scrapbook aunties want to know why there are blank pages. Planner baddies are stressed by the lack of structure. Junk journal nieces don’t understand why anyone would measure margins. Fountain pen girlies are just here to remind you that your paper choice is “interesting.”
And yet, somehow, they all coexist. United by notebooks, stickers, and the shared belief that this new journal will absolutely change their life.
My journal today is an absolute yard sale of thoughts. I have so many topics I want to write about, all jostling for attention, yet somehow I also feel like I have nothing to say at all. It’s a real “buffet with no appetite” situation. One minute I’m mentally drafting profound reflections, and the next I’m staring at the page like, Wait… what was I even trying to say?
Instead of clarity, I’m padding my sentences like they’re going into a long winter, adding filler words, extra verbs, and unnecessary explanations, desperately hoping something meaningful will emerge if I just keep typing. I’ll take a thought that could be expressed in one clean sentence and stretch it into a paragraph, like I’m trying to meet a word count for an assignment I absolutely did not sign up for.
At this point, my journal isn’t a place of deep insight so much as it is a place where thoughts wander in, look around, shrug, and sit down anyway. Maybe that still counts as journaling. I mean, I have a physical journal with just pictures and hardly any words on it. And I love that journal. It currently consists of only a few pages, which are filled out. I do need more sticker paper.
This past weekend was pretty low-key. I’m fairly certain we worked out both Friday and Saturday night, yes, definitely, because Friday was leg day, and we all know how deeply I love leg day. Saturday was upper body, which was much more agreeable. I’m lifting more weight on the bench press now, which feels pretty good.
Saturday morning, Tommy and the boys went bowling while Kel and I stayed home. I spent some time playing Final Fantasy XIV, working on the new cosmic exploration crafting. It was fun, but also a little challenging. Since the recipes are brand new, I don’t have any macros set up yet to streamline the process. That meant a lot of pausing, staring at my hotbars, and asking myself, “Okay… which button now?” There were plenty of failed attempts, but that’s part of the learning curve.
On Sunday, Tommy and I went over to a friend’s house for a gaming day. Kel didn’t come, she had shopping plans with her dad, so it felt a little strange not having her around. We played a four-player game called Meeples and Monsters. It was fine, but very luck-based and very long. A short luck-based game? Totally fine. A long one? Kind of wild. Still, it was fun overall.
We also played a game at the start where you flick little wooden discs onto a board. The scoring system was confusing, but the flicking itself was very satisfying. That one was called Sonora. We had pizza for lunch and bratwurst for dinner, which means today I must be good with my eating.
We left around 6 so Tommy could make it to his hockey game, and he scored a goal! He said the ice was terrible and felt more like skating on outdoor ice, but clearly it didn’t slow him down.
We bought some salad ingredients over the weekend so I can have some salad today. Which will be in half an hour.
Now it’s time for studying, the part of the day where I attempt to convince my brain that focus is a reasonable and attainable goal. Lexi and I already ordered dinner ingredients from Walmart because we are nothing if not planners when food is involved. Tonight’s menu: air fryer chicken thighs, Brussels sprouts, and mashed potatoes.
My goal is to squeeze in some studying before I have to start the mashed potatoes around 4. Mashed potatoes are a commitment. They require foresight, patience, and approximately twelve years for the water to boil.
Everest is here today, which means my attention is divided. Both Merlin and Everest have done the classic routine of asking to come inside, immediately deciding inside is boring, requesting to go back out, and then acting personally offended when the door closes. It’s warm and nice outside today, so I get it. Right now, Everest is inside, and I think she’s finally tired. Merlin, on the other hand, has chosen the outdoors and is sticking to that decision like it’s a lifestyle choice.
My back is hurting today, not awful, but enough to be annoying. It feels like back spasms, which is rude of my body. The wild part is that I still want to work out tonight. This is always the danger zone for me: I get hurt or sick, then suddenly we don’t work out for a long stretch of time, and the streak dies a quiet, unceremonious death. I really want to keep the streak alive, though, so the plan is to take it easy and not make things worse. A revolutionary concept: exercising without trying to ruin myself.
Sandy is currently asleep on my desk, which means my keyboard has been shoved to one side so she can have her rightful spot. I’ve taken her off the desk several times today, and she has returned every time, because rules do not apply to her. She is inevitable.
I have about half an hour of studying left before mashed potato duty begins. Enough time to get into a groove, maybe even feel productive, right before I abandon everything to stare at a pot of water, willing it to boil faster through sheer determination.
Ok, mashed potatoes are officially in motion. The pot is on, the water is not boiling, and I have exactly one solid hour to study. By the time my brain is done trying to absorb information, the potatoes should be soft, compliant, and emotionally ready to be mashed.
Everest is currently lying down, which feels like a small miracle. I’m going to take advantage of this rare alignment of the universe and make myself some tea. Of course, Everest is not lying where Chris said she would lie, no blanket, no designated spot, no logic involved. She’s lying where she decided, which I’m convinced is an owner-exclusive privilege. She listens to me in a way that suggests, “I acknowledge your authority, but only because I feel like it.”
Anyway, I’m posting this now before something changes, before Everest stands up, before the tea goes cold, or before my motivation disappears entirely. Then it’s study time for a bit, until the potatoes call me back to the kitchen for their final transformation.
