It’s almost here.
That’s right. After three months, countless storms, ninety inches of snow (nearly four feet more than normal, according to the Blue Hill Weather Observatory,) bone-chilling temperatures, black ice, short tempers and five snow days – Spring arrives at 7:21 p.m. tomorrow.
Can I get an amen?
I’m not a winter person. True, I grew up in Rochester, New York, and went to college in Potsdam (for those of you who aren’t familiar with that particular outpost of civilization, Potsdam isn’t the end of the world, but you can see it from there.) Rochester is snowy. Potsdam is bone-chillingly cold. You’d think a record-setting winter in Milton would be something I could shrug off in my down parka, cheerfully facing the Arctic wind and laughing as the ice pellets bounce off my glasses.
I’ll admit that the first few storms this year were almost fun. I’ll also admit that the last month or so has been pretty calm in terms of the white stuff. I acknowledge that all but that most gargantuan snowbanks are gone. But so help me, if we don’t get some bona-fide springy spring weather, and pronto, this is one humor columnist who will need a major funny transfusion, stat.
I wonder if I have seasonal affective disorder. Maybe I need light therapy, with those special light bulbs that trick your brain into thinking it’s summer. One drive by the empty Cunningham Pool, however, would quickly clear up that illusion.
Maybe retail therapy would help. Cute springtime clothes might pull me out of my funk, or a sassy pair of sandals could put some spring in my step. But cold reality would set in as my toes go numb while I ponder how to gracefully step around puddles the size of .
Maybe I need some, well, therapy therapy. I can imagine how that might go:
Well-Meaning Therapist: So, how are you feeling?
Me: Awful! I’m so sick of cold weather! I need warmth, sunlight, fresh outdoor air!
WMT: Can you take a vacation?
WMT: This is New England, lady. Suck up and deal, like the rest of us.
In my heart, I know the weather will catch up with the calendar in another few weeks; that daffodils will be blooming all over the yard, instead of just next to the furnace exhaust vent; that I’ll be putting away my sweaters in favor of capris. The car won’t need warming up, a walk through the neighborhood won’t require earmuffs, and the sleds will go into storage until after Thanksgiving. Soon backyard barbecues will replace fireplace time, and I’ll be reminding my kids about sunscreen instead of mittens.
Come on, spring. Spring already, will ya?