It seems the older I get, the more difficult winter gets. I’m not talking about cleaning off my car or shoveling snow—which are both a pain in the butt by the way. I’m talking about the bitter cold getting into my bones and the seemingly endless days of unabating snow and dreariness. Maybe it’s part of getting older or maybe I’m suffering from S.A.D. (seasonal affective disorder) but I feel like winter will never end—and we’re not even to February yet! Snow is supposed to be pretty and magical. And the first snow usually is.
But after that, I’m over it. I’m sick of white. I want color—green and blue and yellow! I want sunshine and blue skies and green grass. No more solid, oppressive whites and grays. I want foliage and flowers and birds. I’m sick of bundling up under three layers of clothes just to leave the house. I want to wear skirts and dresses and sandals again. I want to be able to go for walks. I want the sun to stay out past five o’clock! More than anything, I want to breathe in that smell of spring—rain, earth and warmth.
I don’t want a tropical vacation. I just want spring.