This morning I woke up to snow on the ground. Again.
Welcome to my least favorite time of year: Early spring. Early spring is an evilly deceptive couple of weeks. Starting in late March and extending, sometimes, all the way into May, it pairs the hope of warmer weather with the brutal reality of frigid, subzero days, days weighted down by one’s horrible 10-pound jacket and the awful knowledge that spring — real spring, t-shirt weather spring, put the coat in storage spring — probably won’t turn up until June. IF EVER!
If February depresses me, March and April make me feel vaguely murderous. There is sunlight now, thanks to Daylight Savings, so I no longer want to spend all day in bed reading trashy mystery novels — and yet some higher power, the soul-crushing force that is Mother Nature, is conspiring to keep me indoors, miserable, bored, deprived of Vitamin D, and in the mood to spill blood.