If for some reason you wish to study that peculiar state of human existence called “the blahs,” I suggest you begin in the third week of February in Michigan. It’s been winter for as long as we can remember here, and we still have a long way to go. Coats and boots are routine, slippery roads a fact of life. We face another snow-dump with a resigned shrug. Today the sky is a shade of gray that doesn’t even count as a color. The filthy slush on the roads does not rise to the dignity of brown.