A Seasonal Symposium

I feel like Spring owes me an apology. Because, obviously, this is not what I had in mind when I was fantasizing about Spring during my ongoing relationship with Winter. Don't get me wrong, Winter wasn't all bad. He brought snow to Raleigh, more than once. Granted we were ill-prepared with our one snow plow trying to clear the roads of the entire city. But Winter also offered his usual attractions of holidays, cute scarves, hot chocolate and snuggly darkness. (When you enjoy sleeping as much as I do, eighteen hours of darkness is okay.) But I wasn't really happy with Winter. He got to be a little depressing and fattening. So I longed for Spring. Or the idea of Spring at least. You know, 75 degree temperatures, tulips, trips to the park, exercising outdoors, and strawberries!

But Spring always does this, seduces us with butterflies and sunshine, then knocks us out with chores, heat and pollen. And when I say pollen, I don't mean a little fairy dusting for bees to get high on. I mean POLLEN. End times, plague-level pollen. If the pollen is worse somewhere other than Raleigh, North Carolina, I would hate to see it. Because we now have a situation that qualifies us for emergency government assistance. Certainly, two feet of pollen counts as a federal disaster.

I have seen poor souls who don't have the luxury of parking in a garage, digging their cars out with brooms and shovels, and our entire neighborhood looks like someone colored over it with a neon highlighter. I would assume agents are already investigating the CEOs of Claritin, Zyrtec, and Allegra, to see if they are flying over with crop dusters at night. I have seen people, not in the medical profession, wearing doctor masks to go to the grocery store. And the worst part for me is that I can't wear lip gloss anymore. Because if I do, and I accidentally step into the pollenstorm, my lips get thickly-coated in a gritty yellow powder. Beyond disgusting, it would only pass for fashionable on Sesame Street.

And pollen isn't my only grievance with Spring. It's 93 today. And, last I checked, it's April 6th. If temperatures rise by even only half a degree each day from now to the end of August, that puts us at 166 degrees by August 31st. In which case, we may as well light ourselves on fire, right? As the case against this felonious Spring goes on, the grass is growing at such an alarming rate that my husband may need to quit his job to mow it round the clock. And the ants are marching in with fierce determination, in total disregard to traps and sprays, because it's too freakin' hot for them outside to sit around and construct elaborate vacation homes. They've decided if they're goin' down, they're goin' down with a full belly.

So you know what Spring, thanks for the strawberries and butterflies, but you can keep your nasty pollen and your scorching heat and shove 'em where the sun doesn't shine. (Around here that's only from 8pm-6am.) And if you do decide to apologize, don't send flowers!