March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.
This cliché needs an update. I propose: March comes in like your uncle (the one who drinks too much and the rest of the family suspects he’s bipolar) and goes out like your aunt (the one who got you the best birthday presents and always bakes pies when you visit). Thursday night was a rough one for Uncle March. Cocktail hour had barely begun but he was already in a right state. Rants of icy cold slush spewing from his mouth, tirades against warmth brought to life with wind and vigor. He didn’t slow down all evening. As I walked home, the weepy state of inebriation commenced as rain drops splattered my coat. The next morning dirty piles of snow made us all want to get out of bed late. Sudden movements were difficult and loud noises forbidden.
Then Saturday it was glorious. Warm and sunny, beautiful on a level of inspiring grand works of art. Bipolar, Uncle March, that is the diagnosis. It was the first day in ages where I could stand the thought of being outside for any period of time. So I did what any New Yorker would do, I went for a walk. In Central Park.
It was a struggle to take the subway. My sun-starved skin screamed, “No! Don’t take me underground!” Fortunately it was a short subway ride. When I emerged from the depths of the transit system I was greeted by this site: an ice cream truck, a pink one no less. I may have jumped up and down with glee.
The whole city wanted to be outside. We are all so starved for spring, we get ecstatic about the first day the temperature tips over 50º. It’s a city in transition and with bipolar March, winter to spring is not a smooth one. Every outfit from t-shirt short sleeves to heavy down coats was present in the park. Which makes sense when you have green grass and intermittent snow bathed in sunshine.
Not enough to make a snow man, but enough to clean my shoes when they got all muddy.
I’m hoping for the first leaf buds by Saint Patrick’s Day. If memory serves, this is well with in the realm of possibility. But I don’t want to get carried away. Some building on Park Avenue already planted spring flowers. The poor pansies looked miserable having endured the snow. The contrast of spring flowers and Christmas tree lights also made me smile.
I cannot wait. For flowers and picnics and bare legs and sandals and sidewalk seating and color! and warmth! We are so close to Aunt March and all her goodness. But until then, who knows. That crazy uncle might have another episode.
Are you as anxiously awaiting spring as I am?