Sprung.

I tried not to complain this winter. It was a new thing I was doing. You'd think it would be impossible, since I technically hate winter so fucking much, but from the first snowfall in October, until March 1, I spoke ill of the cooler temperatures only five times, and spent the rest of the time just ignoring the bitter, kill-you cold, and the drifts of god's dandruff. Aaand you know what? It actually helped me get through the season. However, the day it turned March something turned inside of me. Every time I wrapped myself in a giant scarf before braving the wind, every time I had to lug my obese dog for two blocks because he got too cold on a walk, every time I had those stupid little icicles form on my eyelashes, I was full of depression and rage. I was worried that March would be a tough month, but then I realized all of those horrible feelings were just the preliminary symptoms of one of the best illnesses ever: spring fever.

Last Saturday morning, I was walking Reggie in front of the downtown Holiday Inn. The front doors flung open, and a woman in a floral tank top and khaki shorts leaves the hotel and does some sort of celebration dance on the sidewalk. She looks up at me, and in the thickest Wisconsin accent ever, says "It is! It is above freezing!", and I was like "Yeah, bitch, that's how we do in Calgary". Or maybe I just avoided her gaze and swung wide. I don't remember.

This spring, I am going to take Reggie to the park so old people can pet him and relate to him, pick up a heavy tea habit (so long white teeth), figure out how to construct an outdoor 'catio' for Tina, eat more duck, get some sun on my pasty skin, and start trying to whittle down my rare magazine collection into the actual rare magazines (because last month's issue of Zink is NOT a collector's item, much to my dismay). I think spring has sprung, guys, and if not, guess I'll see you in April.

~sarah p.