It’s past the middle of the month. No idea where it has gone, or the first two prior ones really. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure where the first fifteen years of my sweet little girl’s life have gone either. Sugary she isn’t lately, but that is another matter altogether.
As horrible as I have consistently been told this is – I am not a Spring fan. How can you not like Spring? That’s not normal! A dollar each time I’ve had to endure rebukes like that and I would have so much money I’d be gyrating at half-time of the Super Bowl, defining it as decent and recreational.
Apparently it is also normal that my sweet daughter holes up in her bedroom like I have the plague, vacillates between engaging in some WWF and turtle shell retreat move every time I try to hug her, and is bothered by my air consumption on a daily basis.
It’s Spring, my kid can’t stand to be around me, and I’m abnormal. Fine. Ok. But here’s the thing: Compared to what? Compared to whom?
Trigger points are individual and no one else can quite get them. Just can’t. Well-intentioned people who care about you try to understand, but the automatic reactions are not lessened.
The appropriately shortened acronym for people who have “Winter Blues”: SAD. Seasonal affective disorder. I have Spring affective disorder (well, since I have it – maybe disorder is too strong…). Sure, for those flower-pot-perennial-loving-springers, this may be hard to grasp. But likewise, I find it cuckoo that anyone can dislike winter. The fires, the cocoa, the trees! The decorating with lights and sparkles and sentimental mementos, the music, the cheer, the annual progressive dinner with neighbors…come on! Ugly sweater parties, cookie baking, secret Santa’s, Operation Christmas Child, trying to figure out the family schedule and who needs to be where when…the list of happiness and anticipation is endless for me, therefore I really need to stop before I feel like run-on sentencing or putting on a glittery sweater and boots in this yet-to-be-80-degree day.
Living in the Midwest, four seasons come and go. I enjoy three of them. That’s not a bad ratio. 75% from the field back in the day and I would have loved that Fall-Winter sport even more.