Feverish

Hi, Crimson City. It’s me, Spring. You know, the season after Winter? Now, I know we have a … tricky relationship already. You usher me in very quickly, so that it’s 70 degrees the day after it was 19 degrees F, and then you usher me out quickly for summer, so that it’s a nice, livable 75 degrees one day, and then 95 degrees with matching humidity the next. No, don’t deny it – you just like Winter and Summer more. And I get it, I mean, they’re like, real seasons, whereas I am more… transitional, let’s say. (Although who’s more popular is another question that I just DARE you to answer.) Whatever. You have favorites, the populace has favorites – potato, potatoe. Or something.

But last weekend – I mean, for real? You’d welcomed me in last week -- really welcomed me. You said – and I quote – “Let ‘em have it, Spring, baby. Those Crimson City dwellers, they’ve had a moderate winter, but it’s been really frosty lately, and I’m sure they’re itching to take off those layers of woolen underclothing and microfiber fleeces. Have at ‘em.” So I did -- I did! I pulled out the stops. Winter’s a grouch and never likes to leave the area, but I enticed him with a casual remark about Moscow looking mighty nice and warm for early March, not to mention Christmas, when there was no snow in the Red Square, and he blustered on out of here, all “I’ll show that damn global warming what’s what” and muttering under his breath about climate change – to be honest, I don’t really know, since he does tend to mumble into the icicles in his beard a lot. So hey, I get Winter on his way and I step in with my balmy air. I get the robins to chirp cheerily. I coax a couple trees to think about looking greenish. I get the earth to give off that warm, promising smell of rebirth. People shed their winter coats, some hardy souls put on flip-flops, smiles erupt city-wide, and there is joy upon the land.

And what do I get? A freakin’ snow storm this weekend. Six inches of the stuff. Six inches!

It is March 21, Crimson City. March 21 – I am supposed to officially arrive today. Do you have any idea how this makes me look? I look like a fickle, unreliable temptress. Do you know how many Crimson City dwellers woke up, looked at their calendars, and cursed me this morning? Okay, not that many. But the ones that did – those curses hurt, Crimson City. They got me RIGHT HERE.

I’ll just let you think about what you’ve done. No – I don’t want to hear about Winter coming back and grumbling that Moscow was plenty cold. Tell that to Al Gore, honey. I just want you to think long and hard about what kind of lasting damage you’ve done to my reputation. And don’t even think about inviting me back until you’re good and ready to commit. In the meanwhile, I’ll be lolling around in California, where they KNOW me and LOVE me.

Freshly and mint greenly (NOT) yours,
Spring (The Season)