The Christmas tree is still standing, a few stray toys lurking beneath it. Eleven feet tall and about six feet around, Treezilla as it's affectionately known, is looking a bit bedraggled. In the harsh January light, the tree has the tragic air of a woman who has stayed out all night in a beautiful gown, and is returning home with rumpled sequins and smudged mascara. It is a tree for which, sadly, the party is over. I can't yet bring myself to strip the ornaments and unravel the lights, even though needles are dropping and a spider has spun a bit of web around the uppermost branches. This tipsy and frowsy tree is all that stands between us and the long, cold, bleary hangover that is the month of January.

I don't like January, even though it's my birth month. You would think that, being the start of a new year, January would sparkle, kick and absolutely tingle with freshness and promise and life. Instead, it lies here like a wet gray sock, each day bringing new horrors of bad weather and worse bills. After the excitement of the holidays, January can't help but give up. It's a month to be endured and survived. Try even saying "January" without groaning - it can't be done. April may be the cruelest month, but January is surely the most dreary. Nothing to look forward to but February, which at least has Valentine's Day going for it, along with the dim hope of spring.

Like all kids, I looked forward to my birthday. It didn't take long for me to catch on that I'd chosen the wrong month to come into the world. Shortly after New Year's Day, I'd start bouncing around, counting the hours till My Big Day. My parents would wearily inform me that I shouldn't expect much, since we had just had Christmas. As a child I didn't understand what one had to do with the other. Christmas was Santa's problem; birthdays belonged to parents. My mom tried to muster up a little enthusiasm: there were tea parties, balloons, and homemade cakes. But as everyone with a January birthday well knows, there was mostly fatigue, coupled with relief to finally have the celebration done with. There were a few years when I was nearly grown that my birthday was either forgotten or ignored. Don't pity me - as a melodramatic teenage girl I felt plenty sorry for myself, I assure you. Birthdays, I decided, especially January birthdays, are ghastly things that are best spent guzzling red wine and buying overpriced pity garments at Banana Republic.

January is the month when reality sets in. That reckless what-the-heck-it's-only-money spirit that marked December is replaced by a sinking despair at the sight of the Visa bill. And remember all those yummy cookies and glasses of eggnog? They haven't gone away - they're right here, in your thighs. Not to worry though. You've resolved to start jogging this year, and you will. You'll jog every other day for two weeks. Then that first icy rain will hit, and you'll never jog again. That's January for you: a month of physical and financial wreckage that forces us to reassess our lives, to make promises to change, and then to break those promises one by one. January is a stern, practical parent, warning that lofty talk is all well and good but you'd better learn some real skills, since talk is nothing but hot air and never got a damn thing of any use done.

Maybe January should be embraced as the penance it is, not dreaded or resisted. Maybe we're meant to hunker down in our houses, hibernating in the winter dark. Perhaps it's in the natural order of things to follow a festival with a period of recovery and remorse. Are our Christmas memories sweeter because of January's bitter bite? I'll leave that one for the philosophers. I'm too busy trying (and not succeeding) to rid the house of clutter. I'm attempting (and failing) to put myself on a strict budget. I'm thinking about (but not actually getting around to) cooking healthy, warming winter meals. January is the month for taking a long, hard look at your life. All of it: the house, the job, your hair, the mess in the garage... really study it. Then turn away, curl up on the couch, and take a snooze. When it's you against January, January always wins. See you in a month.