My friend Angie mused a little during our Wednesday morning bootcamp.
“You know,” she said between impressive plyo jacks. “If you squint from a distance, the snowy bushes can look like flowering dogwood trees.”
This is what it’s come to here in the Midwest, where spring takes its ever-lovin’ time. We delude ourselves.
One year, my friend Katie shoveled snow in her swimsuit. My friend Karen hasn’t worn wool since February and my friend Sandy cheerfully hops through snowbanks in ballet flats because she won’t wear socks past Christmas.
A neighbor ran his lawnmower the other day, though his yard hasn’t seen a sprout of grass since October.
I recently drove 57 miles from Appleton to Shawano with the top down on my little bug and willed myself not to shiver.
By mid-April, it really should be spring. So, we pretend it is.
We get pedicures or paint our own nails, though our toes won’t see the light of day for weeks. We layer bright colored cotton, because wool feels extra heavy this time of year. We point our faces toward the sun and talk about how good it feels, though the thermometer reads 36.
I live across the street from a park, so I get to witness all kinds of people bravely celebrating spring, without any indication that it has arrived. I see bikers sloshing through slush, rosy-cheeked babies who have never known anything but frosty weather waving happily from strollers, and cross-country runners striding along in shorts and light sweatshirts.
We’re a hearty bunch, here in my little corner of the world, but we’re also a little nuts.
This weekend, we have another winter storm bearing down on us. So, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do in my house. We’re going to slather on some sunblock, because the smell will remind us of sunnier days. We’re going to walk around the house in our flip flops and summer tees. We’ll fire up the grill (and Vince will head outside to use it).
Then, with a little Jimmy Buffet and a healthy imagination, we’re going to have ourselves a great time.