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I’m a firm believer in the fact that no one should have to live in places where they’re forced to battle several months of frigid weather, shivering underneath fourteen layers of wool clothing while spending twenty minutes brushing the snow off their cars — only to find, once they finish, that it’s been snowing so hard that they need to start all over again. I believe that that’s inhumane. I also believe that migratory birds and hibernating bears have the right idea.
Yet, somehow, now matter how often I move, I keep ending up in places where the winter months seem to account for 75% of the year.
I’ll admit (though reluctantly) that I like a nice White Christmas. But one or two days of snow each year are enough for me. Consequently, by the time February rolls around, I’ve had more than my fill of cold, cloudy weather. And when the first big snowfall of March hits, I’m pretty much suicidal.
At the same time, though, I fight to stay optimistic. I try to remind myself that spring is just around the corner. Each morning, I get up and look out the window to see if the snow has melted and the trees have grown leaves overnight.
Then, one day, it happens. The temperature rises a bit, and the snow banks in the front yard begin to shrink. The birds begin to sing and flit past the windows. The sun comes out — as do the joggers in shorts and the midlife-crisis men with the tops down on their new convertibles.
If you listen carefully, you can hear the sigh of relief echoing off the buildings.
Finally… spring!
Spring showed its face in Massachusetts a few weeks ago — but it turned out to be nothing but an early April Fool’s joke, followed by yet another blizzard. But now it’s starting to heat up a bit more, and I’ve self-diagnosed myself as having a serious, full-blown case of spring fever.
This morning, the sun was shining in my bedroom window when I woke up. And the birds were congregating to sing on the deck. I beamed with excitement.
Spring!
Spring, spring, spring, spring, spring! I sang as I danced through the apartment.
I checked the thermometer, and it said that it was 46 degrees outside.
Forty-six whole degrees!
To me, after being trapped inside, buried in wool sweaters and warm blankets for what felt like an eternity, 46 degrees was practically swimsuit weather.
(I wonder if our apartment complex pool is open yet…)
I did a little bit of work, keeping my eye on the slowly-rising thermometer. And then I decided that I could do some work outside for a while. I could work and get a nice, golden tan at the same time.
I got out my sandals and dusted them off before I slipped them on over my heavy socks. Then I zipped up my sweatshirt and grabbed my jacket — and I set up shop out on the deck.
My sun-tanning experience may not have lasted long (even with a cup of hot coffee in my hands), but I’m proud to announce that spring is finally here.
I’ve got the windburn to prove it — and a spring cold to go with my spring fever.
