The weather here teases and taunts me. I’ve sat huddling, shivering, willing the winter to run its course and warmer months to drop in for a visit. It’s not that I don’t appreciate rain, because I do very much, but we haven’t actually had that much of it. It’s just been cold. I do not like cold. I like to be able to feel my fingers and toes when I run. I like to be able to turn the key in my car after a trip to the beach. Snow on Easter was exciting because it was pretty and novel and different. But now I say, bring on the heat!
The flowers have been out for weeks, but the air temperature has still been bitterly chilly. But yesterday, I felt signs that Mother Nature has started to warm her oven. I got (overly, as it turns out) excited about being able to run in shorts today and shaved my legs. All for nothing. The gash I took out over my Achilles’ tendon? ALL FOR NOTHING! I woke up to rain and it’s cold, cold, cold again. I am a cold-weather wuss, I know, but I am so ready for spring and summer.
I am, however, feeling a bit pertinacious today, so I think I’ll wear them anyway. And freeze. Just like I imagine this man was doing on Easter:
*Note: I have to graciously eat my words. (They are delicious.) After posting this, the sun came out, the temperature rose, and not only did I run in shorts but I shed my warm hat and gloves. It was wonderful.
Then, as if I thought it couldn’t get any better, the temperature hit 17, yes 17!, as we drove into London for Youssou N’Dour.