Spring is coming again. I need to have a talk with myself. “You’re going to be disappointed. How can you stop yourself from being crushed?”
Of course I like the idea of spring and the end product. I am willing, more than willing. But I have major trust issues. I’ve been burnt or, rather, frozen by spring before.
When you live in the Upper Midwest, the beginning of March means you’ve been through three months of winter. Winters may be mild or harsh, but when they come, they stay for a while. They get a permanent parking spot. You know what to expect: short days, cold, and snow.
Spring is fickle here. I hate fickle.
Spring is kind of like The Bachelor. In case you’ve missed the past 17 years, 23 seasons and 242 episodes of the show (14 seasons of the Bachelorette with 159 episodes) because you value your time and your soul, or you clip your toenails on Monday nights, here’s how it generally goes: 30 contestants show up eager and willing to find true love and, in the case of the Bachelor, get them a husband. (The Bachelorette flips the script and lets a bunch of dudes find themselves a Mrs.)
Yes, it’s a game. Many think it’s unrealistic and cruel, which brings me back to spring.
Lots of people write flowery love stories about spring. “The day the Lord created hope was probably the same day he created spring.” Or “An optimist is the human personification of spring.” Or “Spring will come and so will happiness. Hold on. Life will get warmer.”
The sentiments are dreamy, hopeful, fawning, and bouyant. Like falling in love.
But when it snows on April 5, you think, “Spring, I thought you felt the same way about
me. You really seemed to be into me.” Then like the rejected contestants on the Bachelor you feel blindsided, embarassed. You put yourself out there and opened up – even if that is hard for you – and you feel like an idiot for it.
You had looked ahead: a pedicure and sandals, light jacket, sunlight, warmth, revival, sitting outside and smelling the lilacs, etc. You could see yourself and spring moving forward toward the ultimate conclusion.
Then the thermometer reads 34 degrees on April 25. The newly sprouted leaves wonder if they should have taken the risk, like all those desirous husband seekers. “Can I just steal you for a minute, Spring? Was I misreading your intentions? You know, I’m here for you! I’m here for the right reasons.”
Spring courts me every year. It cozies up to me with its sunshine and warmth. The chirping birds, the buds pushing up, the longer daylight. All the promises of the future to come. Can we make it through this ordeal and come out together?
Spring breaks me heart every year because it can. It has the upper hand because I am more willing than it is. While spring woos me and still plays patty cake with winter, every year I show up and give it my heart. I just never know how long I have to wait. But I do.