Perhaps it’s a bit hypocritical of me to be so impatient with spring’s arrival date considering I’m pretty much two days late for everything, but I can’t help but wonder, is spring ever coming? And apparently, I’m not the only one asking this question. For the last two months while the east coast has seen almost more snow than we’ve seen THIS ENTIRE WINTER, all any of us can seem to talk about with one another is the unknown arrival date of spring.
I messaged a handsome guy on Hinge, a popular dating app used amongst millennials, asking, “How’s it going?” His response: “Silently cursing the forecast. How about yourself?” While stuffing my face with holiday food last week, I asked my cousin what he’s been up to. “Nothing outside!” he responded a little too angrily. Even when we did our annual family adult scavenger hunt, people seemed more aggressive than in previous years, quickly running around the yard as they simultaneously looked for those damn scratch off tickets and tried not to blow over. What, I ask you, is going on with this freakin' wind?! Blowing over has gone from the can never happen basket in my brain to the 99.9% sure it's going to happen basket.
I know, I know. You’re thinking, breathe, hunny… (and maybe cut back to three cups of coffee a day), but, my patience is running on empty. I scrolled past a Instagram post recently that read, “First the pain, then the waiting, then the rising.” As a person who appreciates deeper Instagram posts (I find it refreshing in a world bombarded with perfectly filtered photos), this resonated with me. I thought, “Yes, everything has a time and place, and now is the time for waiting…waiting for spring.” But I’ve waited, and waited…and then waited some more, and still, my spring clothes have not risen from the containers where they’ve lived the last few months. I have found that every time I open my closet, I judge my poor innocent sweaters, saying hurtful things, like “I’m sick of you,” or “Ugh, not you again.” What kind of person am I turning into? I also never thought I would live the day where I actually felt…oh no, here it goes…tired of watching Netflix. TIRED of binge watching The Office. TIRED (and unsuccessful) at finding a show or movie that I have yet to watch.
Spring, is there any hope that you will make an appearance sometime soon? You can blink a few times if that's an easier form of communication.
Finally, some of us received an answer. This past Friday and Saturday, out of nowhere the sun shined down and with it – temperatures in the 80’s warmed our skin. As I walked down the street to the local coffee shop to get an (iced) coffee, I noticed so many trees were finally in bloom. I couldn’t help but smile – spring had heard our call. Later that day I went to my friend’s son’s tee-ball game. Little boys and girls, parents, and coaches all dressed in short sleeves and shorts as they lathered themselves in sunscreen. I could feel the happiness I had been longing for coming back to me. No more puffy down coats or snow or long winter nights hibernating inside.
We, together, had made it.
And then just like that, I heard it in the near distance. Someone was crying. “Who would be crying on a day like this?” I asked myself. I looked around the tee-ball field and there he was. A tiny four-year-old boy, crying uncontrollably. About what you may be thinking? Well, about the weather. He felt, on that beautiful Saturday afternoon, that it was simply….too hot. I tried to stop him. I wanted to warn him not to cry too loudly for fear that spring –a moody season that doesn’t believe in FOMO and gets some sort of high off being missed by others – would hear. But it was too late. I knew what was to come. I reached for my phone, checked the weather app, and there it was: Sunday’s forecast. 45 degrees and 100% chance of rain…ALL FREAKIN’ DAY. And the days that have followed have been equally dreadful.
It happens every year. Sometime after January we begin feeling sick and tired of the cold and reminisce of warmer days where we were running around in bathing suits being kissed by the sun. Then once it arrives, there is always that one person who begins complaining that it’s too hot, that they’re too sweaty, that they need to be inside in the A.C., and then, jinxed, the cold returns.
I suppose I shouldn’t be too hard on this year’s culprit. After all, his father had dressed him in sweat pants in 85-degree weather. He didn’t know his crying would upset spring so much. All we can do now is wait once again, and hope that spring forgives us. And by us, I do mean that four-year-old kid. Way to go.