I realize I am about to elicit howls of protest – but I will shout it from the rooftops nonetheless in this particular instance.
Thank heaven for global warming! There, I’ve said it, and I’m not ashamed.
Having the temperature rise above the “#$%^ it’s cold” region to the “it’s (barely) OK in the sun” department was such a relief over the weekend, I acted completely out of character.
Sir says he is a victim of SAD, forcing himself into a bit of a decline every June 23 as the days get infinitesimally shorter until the first blush of the changeover to daylight savings the following March. He doesn’t see Dec. 23 as any ray of hope as the days get infinitesimally longer, I will add – hence my sympathy for his condition is somewhat lacking.
I personally don’t suffer from Season Adjustment Disorder in the slightest, but I will confess I was ready to rip someone’s face off last week if I didn’t see the sun PDQ. I can only, evidently, put up with so much drear in one stretch.
So it was with relief I watched the snowline recede from our deck and garden, to the point I was actually able to sit in one of my chairs outside without fear of gluteal frostbite, or indeed hemorrhoids. This still doesn’t mean I can get across the deck without the risk of ice-skating some of the way, but what a blessed relief it was to see the sky in its blue dress rather than its drab gray.
So full of the potential joys of the hopefully not-too-distant change of seasons was I, that I immediately rushed off to the car wash, not being able to stand my salt-encrusted car a minute longer. She is now her beautiful Parisian Midnight and positively glows with good health.
Punxsutawney Phil be damned. I am declaring myself the newest harbinger of spring. I actually – and I know my friends and family will be shocked to the core to read this – did some spring cleaning over the weekend.
Deciding my closet needed a bit of a prune, I attacked it with vigor, discovered some long lost treasures among the crowded coat hangers, and bagged up the rest for donating. I mean, how many pairs of black trousers can one person own, I ask? Apparently way more than necessary according to my groaning hanging rails.
I don’t have a fetish for anything in particular, but blushed somewhat at the number of no-longer-in-use handbags I’d amassed. I still can’t find my much loved malachite pen I lost in the dim dark past, but, she said shame-facedly, there are still more riches to unearth I fear – sadly however, not of the monetary variety.
So springish was I, that I even Rain-X’d my car windows and the sliding glass door to the deck.
Somebody get the thermometer and call the nurse, Annie’s come over all unnecessary!
I see we’re in for more ice and snow this week, but I will cling to the knowledge that there is, dear reader, a light at the end of this winter of my discontent.
-- Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at firstname.lastname@example.org.