It seems like just yesterday that I was singing the praises of the cold fronts descending upon Colorado; how nice it was to pull on a sweater and jeans and just ooze in front of the fire with a nice cup of spiced cider. Now, it’s May, and I literally hate sweaters. I hate jeans. I want to throw the sweaters and jeans into the fire and bail. In fact, come May, I start dressing for summer even if it’s in blatant disregard for the weather. Snowstorms in May do not deserve to be dignified with a response, especially when we’ve waited patiently all winter to pull on a slutty romper and hit the town. Just yesterday, I went for a run in the rain, which turned into sleet halfway through. But since it was May, I kept convincing myself how “fun” the run was and how “pretty” the day was and how “happy” I was to be outside. Two can play at this game, Colorado spring.
All of the rules change when it starts to get warm. Otter Pops and Slurpees become their own food group. Kenny Chesney plays on repeat and no one objects. Joining an adult’s sports league and slugging beers on a work night is not only acceptable, but expected. You ride your bike places, not only because it’s trendy and athletic, but because the black leather seats in your car get so goddamn hot that you’d do anything to feel a bit of a breeze. After-work happy hours on the patio become obligatory (“Order another marg, DO IT!!”) and high-intensity workouts are mandatory (“Your beach bod is your business, I’m taking another lap!!!”) You don’t judge a girl at the bar who’s still in her swimsuit, because she’s been at the pool all day and she parties and she’s cool. And even if you hate baseball, you don’t turn down an opportunity to go to a game because you can eat 24 inches of hot dog without apology.
Warm weather is not without its own set of challenges, however. Last Spring, I was thrilled to have my own little patio and high on the idea of planting some beautiful flowers to really brighten it up. I spent one glorious afternoon at the hardware store, happy to have the excuse to go. (I love hardware stores so much that I’d go and just peruse if it was socially acceptable.) I lugged the giant bag of soil and enormous terracotta planters up to my 7th floor apartment and placed each flower with love and tenderness. I showered them with a healthy dose of Miracle Grow, and swept the residual soil onto the patio below (oops), quite pleased with myself. I went above and beyond for this project, and within a week, the entire planter was DEAD. I was crushed! Open any inspirational calendar and you’ll find a picture of a flower growing through the concrete in Harlem, but somehow the fertile soils of my patio just weren’t good enough. What ingrates, I gave them EVERYTHING! I’ve had a whole year to change my strategy, and I plan to try my luck as a green thumb again in the coming weeks. Who wants to go to the hardware store? Anyone? That’s alright, I’d rather go alone.
As soon as it stops sleeting, I’m hitting the links… hard. I recently became the proud owner of a new set of golf clubs. This wouldn’t be noteworthy if I hadn’t spent the last two summers golfing with only three clubs and a haggard bag I bought at a garage sale. Now the pressure’s really on to improve my game—I can no longer justify throwing my ball out of the sand and onto the green because I “don’t have a sand wedge”. Come to think of it, I may have done myself a serious disservice with this new acquisition. I’m also looking forward to fly fishing with my Dad; nothing like pulling on a pair of skin-tight waders and spending the day untangling your line from the branch behind you that you didn’t see. Oh well, maybe it will teach me patience for my golf game; lord knows I’ll need it.
So ‘tis the season to toss all of your winter gear into the fire, or for a less dramatic approach, simply store it. Order that third marg, wear your swimsuit to the bar, measure the meat you eat in inches; anything goes! And if you’re like me and you accidentally murder a pot of plants, just remind yourself they were just a bunch of bitch ass pansies… literally.
No comments:
Post a Comment