I’m feeling topsy-turvy. It is the afternoon of March 31 as I write this post, and large wet snowflakes are falling to the ground. It felt like spring this morning, it really did. I took Truffle to the dog park and for the first time this year did not feel uncomfortably cold as I watched him romp with his friends. Alas, the spring tease was not to last. A mere few hours later, it’s barely 40° outside.
I tell myself that the snow will stop falling by the time I finish writing this post. I will rebound from my disappointment that March has not lived up to its cliché and gone out like a lamb. I will wake up tomorrow morning feeling confident that I’ll finally be able to fumigate my winter coat and put the family’s scarves, gloves and hats into storage in the basement until the end of the year. Although I suspect my confidence will be misplaced several more times before spring settles in for good.
I heard birds chirping throughout the winter, which I found odd. Not just the occasional confused bird, but many birds toughing out the brutal weather together, foolishly optimistic that they’d be spared the snow and bitter cold. And now that April 1 is upon us, I hear even more birds chirping, announcing the arrival of warmer days. The daffodils in my front yard are also preparing to make their 2015 début. But I’m starting to think we humans, flowers and birds alike have all been duped.
Chloe and Sophie have been chomping at the bit to wear their new spring clothes. Chloe and I went thrifting in the East Village the other day. She bought 10 pieces of clothing and jewelry for about $90. I admire her patience and her determination to find cheap fashion treasures. In an effort to encourage spring to move its butt and arrive already, she recently ventured out in a skirt without wearing leggings or tights. Oh, to be 14 again.
My mom bought Sophie an adorable sleeveless dress that she plans to wear this weekend in Massachusetts, where the ground is still covered in not just a few inches or one foot of snow, but feet of snow. Sophie is going to be in for a nasty surprise when we arrive, although since she’s only 9 years old, she’ll probably think all that late-melting snow is cool.
“You’re a closet optimist!” exclaimed a former boss when I tried to put a positive spin on some issue we were trying to resolve. I suppose that in spite of my self-proclaimed realism (or pessimism), I harbor a dormant optimism that tends to sneak up on those who know me best (it sneaks up on me, too – and I sometimes don’t recognize it). There’s always tomorrow, I tell myself when an already bad day continues its descent to hell in a hand basket.
When I contemplate the passage of time, the seasons inevitably serve as my guideposts. In the pages of this blog, I’ve frequently bemoaned how quickly my girls are growing up and lamented about my point-of-no-return entrance into middle age. If there’s one positive aspect of this interminable winter, it’s that time has seemed to have slowed considerably, almost to a standstill. Optimistic me knows the crappy weather will make its way to the southern hemisphere eventually. In the interim, I breathe a little easier and enjoy the here and now. And I happily buy into the illusion of extra time because as soon as spring takes up its temporary residence once and for all, the roller coaster ride will take off again.