I must preface the following diatribe with this: my love for springtime knows no bounds. I love the warm breezes; throwing my mountains of tights and stockings in the air with wild abandon, knowing that I will not need them for the coming months; making peace with the pollen that will attach itself to me like the tightest windbreaker. I love spring.
The forecast for the upcoming week. It’s still wintertime, friends. (Well, if we want to call this weird period from December-March “winter,” which is wasn’t; it was more like wintnot, being that we saw virtually no snow–the little snow we saw melted in seconds–and the frigid air we were all expecting came here and there, only to be interrupted by weird Caribbean breezes.) Nevertheless, we can expect a very springy week ahead, I suppose in preparation of the official start to spring, which is next Tuesday. (Which means this whole diatribe is basically meaningless, but I had to say something, ok? It’s my blog and I’ll diatribe if I want to.)
The weather is so schizophrenic. The weather needs a ton of us gathered in a rose-scented room, poised to hug it back to normalcy when it finally stumbles in, all worn out from freebasing spring with winter and summer with fall. The weather needs help. I hate to personify something that so does not need personification, but it’s just utterly baffling. I mean, I know it’s because of the wacky atmosphere and the earth shifting or something (obviously I wasn’t listening in any science class, whatsoever), but it’s a little ridiculous. Oh, and my poor sinuses. The barometric twists and turns typically render me into a sniffling, headachey, complaining monster.
If you’re wondering, though, yes: despite my grumbling, I will happily throw those tights and stockings in the air this week. So, yes: this whole complaint was still basically meaningless.