Every February we’re reminded that America has placed its meteorological hopes in the paws of a small, confused woodland creature who did not ask for this job and is almost certainly unqualified for it.

Groundhog Day arrives. The cameras roll. The handlers in top hats appear, as if this isn’t bizarre enough already. And then the groundhog emerges, glances around for half a second, and proceeds to ruin the collective mood of roughly 80% of the country.

This year, our furry forecaster delivered his usual verdict: more winter. I took it personally.

The audacity of a groundhog — a groundhog — telling me, a functioning adult with tax obligations and a mortgage, that I must emotionally prepare for six more weeks of seasonal misery feels, at best, insulting. At worst, targeted.

And let’s be real: there is no version of February in which we’re suddenly getting “early spring.” Those of us who live in the Midwest know better. Spring is not coming early. Spring is not coming on time. Spring will show up whenever it wants, wearing flip-flops and acting like it didn’t ghost us for months.

The whole tradition makes even less sense the older I get. Why are we consulting a rodent? Why do we pretend he understands shadows, seasons, or consequences? Why is he perched on a platform being treated like a small, furry CEO? This is not a weather system. This is community theater.

The best part is that the groundhog has no accountability. He predicts six more weeks of winter, then simply waddles off to take a nap, leaving the rest of us to shovel driveways and emotionally stabilize ourselves with hot beverages.

Meanwhile the meteorologists — the ones with degrees — are out here doing daily forecasts like, “We don’t know why you keep listening to the rodent. We’re literally right here.”

So no, I won’t be taking further winter guidance from Punxsutawney Phil or his associates. If a woodland mammal wants to give me advice, it had better be about finding snacks or avoiding predators, because clearly weather is not his lane.

In the meantime, I’ll be ignoring his proclamation and mentally transitioning to spring anyway. Does that mean anything will warm up sooner? Of course not.

But denial is so much more comfortable than wind chill.