Lifestyle
Why do we leap day? We remind you (so you can forget for another 4 years)
A clock showing February 29, also known as leap day. They only happen about once every four years.
Olivier Le Moal/Getty Images
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Olivier Le Moal/Getty Images
A clock showing February 29, also known as leap day. They only happen about once every four years.
Olivier Le Moal/Getty Images
Nearly every four years, the Gregorian calendar — which is used in the majority of countries around the world — gets an extra day: February 29.
For some people, leap day means frog jokes and extravagant birthday parties. For many, it may conjure memories of the 2010 rom-com Leap Year, which harkens back to the Irish tradition by which women can propose to men on that one day. And others likely see it merely as a funny quirk in the calendar, or just another Thursday.
Leap day means several different things to Alexander Boxer, a data scientist and the author of A Scheme of Heaven: The History of Astrology and the Search for Our Destiny in Data.
Literally speaking, he says, it’s an “awkward calendar hack” aimed at making up for the fact that a year isn’t a flat number of days, but more like 365 and a quarter. But there’s more to it than that.
“I think the significance of the leap year is that it’s a great reminder that the universe is really good at defying our attempts to devise nice and pretty and aesthetically pleasing systems to fit it in,” he told NPR’s Morning Edition.
Boxer says it’s also a great reminder that the calendar most people rely on every day is actually the product of multiple civilizations, building off each other as they share in what he calls “this great undertaking of trying to understand time.”
So where did leap year come from, and what are we supposed to do with our extra day? NPR’s Morning Edition spoke with experts in astronomy, history and economics to find out.
Why do we have leap years?
Most people know that a single day is about 24 hours long, and that there are 365 days in a year.
But it actually takes Earth 365.242190 days to orbit the sun, says Jackie Faherty, an astronomer at the American Museum of Natural History in New York.
“And that .242190 days to go around the sun is the entire reason why we have a leap year,” she explained.
Centuries ago, people kept track of the sun’s position — such as for a solstice or the longest day of the year — to know when to do things like plant and harvest. Over time, she says, the need grew for a centralized calendar system.
The Hebrew, Chinese and Buddhist calendars, among others, have long contained entire leap months. The West is no stranger to leap years either.
The Julian Calendar, which Julius Caesar introduced in 45 BC, included an extra day every year. He borrowed the idea from the Egyptians, though his math wasn’t exactly correct. Caesar overestimated the solar year by about 11 minutes, leading to an overcorrection by about eight days each millennium. That explains why Easter, for example, fell further and further away from the spring equinox over time.
Pope Gregory XIII sought to address that problem in the 16th century with the Gregorian Calendar, which adds leap days in years divisible by four, unless the year is also divisible by 100. To make matters even more confusing, a leap day is still added in years divisible by 400.
Why add the extra day in February? Boxer, the data scientist, says the Romans considered it an unlucky month. On top of that, they were deeply suspicious of odd numbers. Because February only had 28 days to begin with, they “just shoved it into February,” though leap day used to be on the 24th.
Ultimately, says Boxer, the calendar is a compromise.
“On the one hand, you don’t want a calendar that makes it so complicated to know how many days it’s going to be from one year to the next,” he added. “But on the other hand, you want to make sure that winter holidays, too, in the winter and summer holidays, stay in the summer, especially if your holidays are related to things like agriculture, harvest holidays and whatnot.”
What does leap day mean for birthdays?
One tangible impact of a leap year is that birthdays will fall on a different day of the week than their usual pattern.
“If your birthday was on a Tuesday last year, you’re going to skip over Wednesday and you’ll have a birthday on a Thursday,” said Faherty. “Not to mention those poor people that are born on February 29, a day that only exists every four years.”
There are about 5 million people worldwide with a Feb. 29 birthday, according to the History Channel. The list of so-called “leaplings” includes celebrities such as motivational speaker Tony Robbins and hip-hop artist Ja Rule. And peoples’ odds of joining their ranks are small — about 1-in-1,461, to be exact.
Several leaplings told NPR that there’s no set rule on which day to celebrate their birthday in a non-leap year. Some prefer Feb. 28, others March 1 and many do both.
“My answer to this question has evolved over the years,” said Michael Kozlowski Jr., a leap day baby based in Belgium. “It used to be February for the reasons that I identified more with that month compared to March. But these days I honestly like to celebrate both days or even the entire week. It seems only fair and it works and it feels great.”
They acknowledged both pros and cons of having a leap day birthday. Several said that while they were teased about it in grade school, it helped them develop a thicker skin and gave them a fun fact for life — plus more days to celebrate.
Plus, many online forms — including for the DMV — don’t recognize Feb. 29 as a possible birth date. Raenell Dawn, the co-founder of the Honor Society of Leap Year Day Babies, told NPR in 2020 that those logistics can cause trouble, especially when it comes to things like driver’s license expirations. But she also said there’s no reason for leaplings to change their birth date.
“Humans program the computer, so the humans need to program it correctly,” she said. “‘Cause February 29 is everyone’s extra day. And it’s a day that started in 45 B.C. And it’s the most important date on the calendar because it keeps all the dates on the calendar in line with the seasons.”
What should you do — and not do — on Feb. 29?
There are lots of superstitions and traditions about leap day on the internet, and a few celebrations to look forward to IRL.
A decades-old French satirical newspaper, La Bougie du Sapeur, goes to print only on Feb. 29 — this year included. There are also festivities in the “Leap Year Capital of the World,” as Anthony, Texas, is known.
Leapling Mary Ann Brown petitioned Congress to give Anthony, Texas — and Anthony, New Mexico, on the other side of the state line — that designation in 1988 because of the “numerous number of leap year births that happened within the two towns,” Mayor Anthony Turner told NPR over email.
In years past, he said, the community marked leap day with a parade that stretched between the two towns of Anthony. This year, the Texas side is hosting a two-day leap year festival, complete with live music, local vendors and an exclusive barbecue dinner for leap day babies.
“This is an opportunity for the community to take pride in the fact that they live in the leap year capital of the world, and a great chance for everyone from everywhere to join us and enjoy the true beauty of our lovely town,” Turner added.
Worldwide, most leap day lore revolves around romance and marriage, as the History Channel explains.
According to one legend, complaints from St. Bridget prompted St. Patrick to designate Feb. 29 as the one day when women can propose to men. The custom spread to Scotland and England, where the British said that any man who rejects a woman’s proposal owes her several pairs of fine gloves. In Greece and some other places, it’s considered bad luck to get married on leap day.
Katherine Parkin, a history professor at Monmouth University, said she doesn’t believe any of the myths are true — but doesn’t think they had to be in order to take hold, which they did in America as early as the 1780s.
An example of one of many early 20th century postcards by cartoonist Clare Victor Dwiggins — “Dwig” — showing women pursuing men in a leap year.
Katherine Parkin
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Katherine Parkin
An example of one of many early 20th century postcards by cartoonist Clare Victor Dwiggins — “Dwig” — showing women pursuing men in a leap year.
Katherine Parkin
The real origin, she believes, is that people have historically liked to challenge gender and gender roles.
“And in the case of marriage, to have a reversal of that power, I think is really unusual,” she added. “And it ties perfectly with this unusual date. Where did it come from and where did it go? And so I think it really plays well into people’s imagination and playfulness.”
But Parkin says her research points to darker undertones behind the tradition — namely, that it was actually intended to ridicule women.
She points to the proliferation of postcards in the 20th century — which people would send each other across all kinds of relationships — that portrayed women who proposed to men as desperate, unattractive and aggressive, such as holding butterfly nets and pointing guns at guys.
“It’s proving to … reinforce that it’s a leap year and that this tradition exists and yet at the same time telling women, you really don’t want to do this because it looks bad for you,” Parkin said. “As a historian, I look back to this tradition and see it as part of an American desire to offer women false empowerment.”
Of the more than 100 people who responded to an NPR callout about their leap day celebrations and traditions, several said they had gotten engaged or married on Feb. 29. Only one explicitly mentioned gender roles.
“I think this is the day that (traditionally) a woman was able to propose?” wrote Suzanne Forbes. “If so, I plan on proposing to myself in a beautiful southern setting (likely [Georgia], while solo kayaking)!”
What if we didn’t have leap years?
Not everyone loves leap day.
Steve Hanke, a professor of applied economics at Johns Hopkins University, is one critic. He argues that the current calendar, in which dates occur on different days of the week each year, creates scheduling problems as well as confusion around holiday dates.
That’s why he and Johns Hopkins astrophysics professor Dick Henry have created the Hanke–Henry Permanent Calendar, a proposal for a new calendar that would implement an occasional leap week rather than leap day.
“The great thing about the permanent calendar is that it never changes,” Hanke explained. “The date would be on the same day. Every year, year after year after year … January 1st is always on a Monday. July 4th is always on a Thursday. December 25th, Christmas, is always on a Monday.”
Their calendar divides the year into four three-month quarters, each with the same number of days. The first two months of each quarter — including January and February — would always have 30 days, and the third month would have 31. Every six years, there would be an extra seven days at the end of December, which Hanke says would “eliminate calendar drift.”
Hanke argues that his proposed calendar would save confusion and potentially money, pointing to studies in the United Kingdom that show the economic gains associated with having public holidays on weekends. And he believes it would be easy for a president to implement the new system by executive order, something that he and Henry have even drafted, just in case.
Still, he describes their lobbying efforts as more of a “soft sell” at the moment.
It seems like the current calendar system — with its leap days and years — may be here to stay, despite the many possible alternates. Faherty, the astronomer, says if someone truly wanted to keep track of their path around the sun, one could “build yourself a henge and know when the solstice is and carry on from that.”
“But we don’t do that,” she said. “We gave it an interval and we follow that, so now we’re stuck. And now you have to enter these leap days, to try and do our best to fix the human need to have a document that says where exactly you are in the position that the Earth is falling around.”
And that’s probably enough to think about for the year, maybe even the next three.
Adam Bearne and Julie Depenbrock contributed reporting.
Lifestyle
Nearly half of Americans surveyed don’t know what America 250 commemorates
People visit the Liberty Bell on the eve of Independence Day in Philadelphia on July 3, 2025. The crack in this symbol of U.S. freedom echoes the paradox between national pride and civic ignorance revealed in a new national poll.
Juan Mabromata/AFP/Getty Images
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Juan Mabromata/AFP/Getty Images
A new national poll reveals a striking paradox in public sentiment ahead of America’s 250th anniversary: a disconnect between Americans’ strong patriotic pride and their lack of civic knowledge.
According to a survey from the libertarian Cato Institute think tank of more than 2,000 U.S. adults conducted in late June, 86% of respondents said they are grateful to be American and 70% believe the nation’s founding principles remain relevant.
However, nearly half of Americans (46%) don’t know that America’s 250th anniversary commemorates the adoption of the Declaration of Independence.
This civic ignorance extends to basic governance: Nearly 60% do not know the main purpose of the U.S. Constitution is to limit government power, and do not know why the colonies declared independence from Great Britain.
Furthermore, the report highlights deep anxieties about the future of American liberty.
The majority of those surveyed believe the country has strayed from its founding principles, and more than half fear the U.S. could cease to be a free country within the next 50 years, citing corruption and the abuse of power as primary threats. The majority of both Republicans and Democrats share these fears.
The concerns are especially pronounced among Gen Z respondents, who exhibited both the lowest levels of civic knowledge and the least favorable views of the nation’s founders. The majority of Gen Z failed to cite the adoption of the Declaration of Independence as the source of the 250th anniversary.
“The lack of civic knowledge is a great disaster,” said Coe Professor of History and American Studies and Professor of Political Science Emeritus at Stanford University Jack Rakove. “Any democratic system of government to succeed requires having an informed electorate.”
The Pulitzer Prize-winning authority on the drafting of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence blamed the problem on the fragmented media landscape and schools prioritizing STEM subjects over civics and history.
“Our educational system is highly decentralized. So the idea that you could have one clean, neat, sweeping educational reform that will cope with the problem is hard,” Rakove said. “And of course, and we do live in this disaggregated information environment where people pick the sources they like. If you assume that a Democratic society depends upon well-rounded deliberation of being exposed to the views of other people, the information environment itself is not conducive to the underlying foundation of Democratic debate.”
Lifestyle
L.A. Affairs: He wanted L.A. I wanted New York. A panic attack changed everything
Unpacking my third suitcase in our new West Hollywood home, a sharp pain shot through my chest. I felt dizzy and short of breath before sprawling out on our mattress, which was still covered in plastic.
“What’s wrong?” David asked.
An hour later, on a gurney in the emergency room at Cedars-Sinai, I waited to be admitted overnight. What a great start to our new life — back in L.A. after seven years in New York City — David sleeping alone at our apartment while I was to keep close to the paddles and operating room in case what had just happened was a heart attack.
I was 33, practicing yoga and exercising almost daily. A few months earlier, my New York doctor noticed I had high blood pressure, and I was feeling terrible, so something clearly was going on. Was an artery blocked? Nope, the tests revealed; physically, I was fine. What had happened was a panic attack.
“Your health will be better in L.A.,” David had promised before returning to L.A.
Now I took no pleasure in his being wrong.
After growing up in Temple City (hardly L.A.), I went on a high school trip to the Big Apple and knew it was where I needed to be.
Exactly five years later, the time to escape California arrived after a miserable breakup from a three-year relationship with a guy that I hid entirely from my family. I was desperate and depressed, down 15 pounds from not eating much, my diet consisting largely of cigarettes and red wine. At the Archstone, my Studio City apartment, I did ecstasy alone on a Wednesday. One has to take a good look at himself when he’s in his bedroom, by himself, rolling, and so I decided it was time to start over in New York.
On the other side of the country, I thought it was normal to hook up with a new guy every third night. Which I suppose, for a gay man who’d spent the first 27 years of his life denying his sexuality to a family he feared wouldn’t understand, it was. My self-esteem was in the gutter, though you wouldn’t have known it from the outside.
After a three-digit number of hookups on Grindr, I met David, a guy who lived on the same Manhattan corner as I did. We did what people do on Grindr and hooked up a couple of times.
But one morning, we bumped into each other on 9th Avenue. I left our short chat feeling uplifted by how smiley and polite he was in daylight and while we were sober. That night, we went on our first date, and the rest is history. But I hid what I assumed wouldn’t be well-received.
“Let’s move back to L.A.,” he said after four years of life together in New York.
“I’m really not ready,” I said. I loved living in New York and never, ever expected to leave. He understood, but he wanted to return to “the coast.” I knew that in a healthy relationship, it couldn’t be just what I wanted. So eventually, we packed up and moved to an apartment on North Flores Street in West Hollywood.
And now, I was in the hospital.
After having to cancel the welcome home party our L.A. friends had planned for us, and being released from Cedars, my life fell apart. But being the one who kept everything together, I kept it together better than most would, at least in the presence of others.
I’m fine, I told myself, but I worried my heart was broken, and there was something medically wrong with it. To heal it, I’d need to accept truths that I didn’t want to.
Growing up was devastatingly hard for me. Being gay and misunderstood, with the unacknowledged pain of it kept inside, was quite literally eating me alive. Being back in L.A. meant being near my past. I told my mom I was gay before leaving for New York. She said she still loved and accepted me, but to this day, the struggle has never been discussed or acknowledged. I knew I was a disappointment to my family.
I went to Westwood what felt like 70 times, and after visiting a bunch of UCLA’s specialists, I found myself in the office of a neurosurgeon who took one look at me and said, “You don’t belong here. What you’re suffering from is plain old anxiety, and you’re going to have to work with your therapist on this.”
“I have been,” I said, “and it’s not helping.” But before I finished, he had walked out the door.
Before long, the panic attacks got so bad, I could hardly drive. David chauffeured me, under the palm trees and bright sun, around as much as his schedule allowed, and when he couldn’t, I made the best of it, lugging my laptop with me for the hour-long trek to yoga-teacher training at Equinox in the South Bay, using that extra time in the back of an Uber to write.
For almost my entire adult life, I’d been in therapy, but it was couples therapy with David where I felt supported enough to admit, first to myself, that I’d been terrified of being fully myself. I was afraid he’d leave me if he saw the real me. Secretly I had been keeping a lifetime of pain bottled up inside because of fear — I didn’t want to risk losing him by being too emotional or having too many feelings.
Three months after that therapy session, the pandemic arrived, and being together 100% of the time for the next year, I let him in fully. He didn’t run — instead, he proposed.
It’s been eight years since that neurologist, and six since I’ve been able to fully drive again. And here in L.A., in a city characterized by its distance, I have, with David, built a close chosen family that supports and fully understands me.
Now, I feel “at home” at our Spanish-style Hancock Park house, the one we bought because we wanted to start a family of our own, only after L.A. allowed me to heal and live peacefully, and now, anxiety free.
Had David not dragged me back, I wouldn’t have learned what I did about myself, my story of origin and living a life that’s so beautiful and that’s so true to me.
And certainly, we wouldn’t be bringing our baby daughter, Lucy, named after Lucille Ball (who’s more Hollywood?), home in mid-July by way of surrogacy.
The author is a writer and coach who helps established business owners build lives that feel as good as they look. He lives in Hancock Park. He’s on Instagram: @iammattgerlach.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
Lifestyle
To be or not to be a parent : It’s Been a Minute
Could you see your life just as easily with children as without?
What if you’re not cut out for parenthood? What if you grow lonely in your old age? Or what if you have a loving partner, but you disagree on this choice? Deciding between parenthood and a child-free life requires clarity about your fears and deepest desires — no easy task. This episode, psychotherapist and author of the book, The Baby Decision, Merle Bombardieri, helps us get clear. She discusses minimizing regret, normalizing feeling ‘stuck’ and why waiting to have a baby at 38 may be best.
Want more about the decision to have kids?
Many women don’t want kids. And for good reason.
Why are people freaking out about the birth rate?
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Additional support for this episode came from Alexis Williams. It was edited by Neena Pathak. Our Supervising Producer is Cher Vincent. Our Executive Producer is Barton Girdwood. Our VP of Programming is Yolanda Sangweni.
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