Forgive me for not getting spring giddy.
I live in the tropics. So, I wake up to tweeting birds and sunny days, or mild drizzles, or sometimes torrential rainstorms, every day. Every day, it’s between 70 and 85 degrees. The evenings are cool, ideal for a nice warm blanket and even hot chocolate. The flowers are always blooming, leaves are always green, parrots are madly chattering, people always wearing short sleeves … Every day is sandal and skirt weather. (Yes, ladies, no chance at slacking off in the maintenance department). Every day is beer on the balcony weather, wine on the terrace weather, wandering up and down the avenue weather.
The weather is SO BLOODY PERFECT it’s enough to want to make you choke on your lemonade and spit it out at someone. WHERE THE HELL IS THE CRAP WEATHER PAJAMA DAY? WHAT ABOUT A SNUGGLY, TUCKED IN BED READING DAY? It. Doesn’t. Happen. Because, my friends, spring is not only a time of re-birth, but it’s a constant reminder that I’ve got shit to do and not enough time to do it. The sun rises a bit before six every morning and sets around 6:30 every evening (we’re just two degrees north of the equator). No long, eternal summer nights or short winter days. Just the constant TWELVE HOUR MADNESS OF PERFECT WEATHER.
This much good weather would make ANYBODY CRANKY. And frankly … I WANT BAD WEATHER.
I remember reading A HUNDRED YEARS OF SOLITUDE just after college before moving to Colombia. And I remember most of my reactions were, “Huh? Like, um, don’t they want to change someone’s name? Huh?” Then I moved to Colombia, and it all started to make sense. I’m not saying that those who read it and DON’T live in Colombia won’t “get it”. But I will say this, I don’t just get it, I live it.
So. Take your spring and your happiness and joy and rebirth and …
Ahhh, to hell with spring.