So anytime you feel like becoming the mild and lovely and SPRINGTIME FRESH month that I know you can be, that would be awesome. Because I'll let you in on a secret (and by secret I mean the opposite of a secret): I AM SICK OF WINTER. You have officially used up your lion quota. Plus, you taunted me last weekend, March. Cruelly. It was SEVENTY degrees outside. Let me repeat that for you. SEVENTY. I wore SHORT SLEEVES. And OPENED THE WINDOWS. And drank ICED COFFEE. And spoke in ONLY CAPITAL LETTERS BECAUSE I WAS SO EXCITED. For a few days there, I was waking up to birds chirping. The floors felt warm beneath my bare feet, and the air in the apartment was beginning to hang a little heavier, barely hinting at that summertime stickiness that I hate in July, but loooove in April.
And then you just pulled the rug right out from under me. And I know, I know. You could be January [THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart, for not being January]. Even though today was colder, I suppose it wasn't that cold. And there are a few flowers trying to peek their heads above the ground. But I'm impatient. I'm achy for green. And sun. And BARE ARMS. And flowers. And leaves. And flip flops. And WONDERFULNESS.
I only have sixty-three days until I am DONE with this semester (but who's counting? and making a paper chain like a fourth grader? Hint: her name starts with M and ends with ary Frances). And between now and then, on a scale of one to ten, I anticipate being a negative five on the fun scale, and a one thousand and eight times infinity on the stress scale. So some warm weather would be pretty rocking right about now, and would definitely help move those numbers closer to the normal and away from THE CRAZY. Also, the flowers in my bathroom window would be a lot happier if you released your inner lamb.
Kindly,
Mary Frances
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