Officially, the first day of spring is March 20. I don’t know about you, but a spring that involves snow in the air, wind chills and below freezing temps is no spring to me.
Spring means blossoms. The kind that look like Malcolm Gladwell tree wigs.
Earthly blooms, bursting with color and pollen.
Long walks outside with shoes that don’t cover my ankles.
The absence of hot chocolate.
Skirts with no tights.
These things rightfully don’t happen in March. Unless there’s a freak warm weather system that gets Chad Myers’ underpants in a twist.
But April. We expect more of you.
Prolonged warm spells, not just pockets of heat.
I’m not offended by a pocket though. The weekend, for instance. Sandwich it between workweeks and the weekend is thrilling. Exhilarating. Titillating? All of those at once.
Imagine this: if every day were a weekend day, where would be the joy in approaching a weekend? Which may be a sensation even better than the weekend itself.
