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March

It's spring. The neighborhood is full of daphne-scented breezes. Tulip spears are poking up everywhere. I picked up my cashmere pullover at the drycleaner yesterday and didn't even bother to un-paper it--it's going into storage for the next eight months. I slept with the bedroom window wide open last night.



I seem to have Seasonal Affective Disorder in reverse. The nights get shorter. People (shudder!) come outside and start clogging up my streets. And making noise, damn them. Neighbors, totally ignorable for the last four or five months, start doing stuff outdoors.

It's awful.

I'm only half-serious. Inside, my body is rejoicing. There's nothing lovelier than stepping out into a morning of mild, soft, sweet-smelling air and not needing a coat. The sound of geese flying north again late at night makes me smile. People do cheer up. And daylight is good. I even have some warm-weather clothes that I think are not entirely contemptible.

But, see, I like the cold and quiet. I like winter. I love wool. And when March rolls around and daffs start odilling, all I can think is, "Pretty soon it's going to be warm, then hot. And light all the damn time. And noisy. And dry. And dirty."

I know, I know: borrowing trouble. First World Problems. Bitch-bitch-bitch.

*goes off muttering "Damn lawnmower!"*

Crossposted from Dreamwidth, where there are comment count unavailable comments.

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