I don’t hate spring. I do love cold weather and I live for fall/winter fashion, but I tend to like whatever season is happening.
But it’s 70 degrees in February in Ohio and I’m conflicted.
I have no clothes for this. I am not ready to bring out spring black. I’m wearing cuffed jeans and I refuse to shave my legs.
I like whatever season is happening. I get excited about new weather once it starts, but that’s the beauty of it: new seasons start without anyone noticing the last one ended. They’re supposed to blend into each other without seams. But winter lets go slowly. There’s a very definite dying period of “winter weather” snow and sleet followed by sunshine days that leave the snow in a muddy late winter mush, much like 90’s pop stars trying hard to make a comeback after gaining 30 lbs and losing some hair. One can’t help but feel bad for winter past his prime.
Because I’m loyal to the joys of winter, I defy this period. Saturday had beautiful snow in the afternoon; I sipped coffee in fuzzy socks and made chili. Sunday I pried the windows open in lieu of turning on the AC (in February) and was forced outside to buy warm weather clothes since I own and desire so few. I came out with one black t shirt.
I moved north for winters and have gotten used to disappointment.
Today was a rare weekday that I got to sleep in, drink my coffee from home, and open the window again for my cat who is ever curious of the outside but refuses to explore it herself. I turned on KTCL 93.3 on iHeartRadio (a Denver station I still listen to regularly, where there’s a low of -1 today and I’m in a tank top) and heard the perfect springtime song for when romantic flings pollute the air for three months straight.
It’s a bop, upbeat and peppy and perfect for opening the moonroof in a Starbucks drive-thru. The lyrics are just the right amount of cynicism for my feelings this time of year: not just of love, but all the passive-aggressive thoughts we thought music left behind in 2005. It’s the formulaic pop song with two almost-witty verses and an over-repeated hook that is also the title. I’m not sure if the Jackson Pollock reference is a burn to abstract expressionism or a compliment. As a trained musician and educated writer, it should be everything I hate. This morning I turned the car radio way up and sang along with my windows down.
Laken Emerson 