Today the temperature topped 60° in parts of the metro area. Just for a little while, but the balmy temperature, combined with sunshine and blue sky, I am positive, enticed a billion little spores and mites and bugs and pollen bits to launch themselves in a celebratory frenzy: Oh joy, it's spring! And my sinuses responded.
This happens every February. February is the wicked witch of winter. February waves her wand and beguiles all the gullible little bulbs and ferns into believing it's safe to raise their little trusting faces to the sun. (Awww, isn't that cute, my bulbs are sending up green shoots. What was it I planted in that pot, again? I have no recollection. Last November seems an awfully long time ago.)I bet you can guess what happens next. Yep. Sometime in early to mid-March, a nasty Arctic cold front will sweep down from the Gulf of Alaska and blanket all the trusting little crocuses and daffodils who were stupid enough to believe February's lies with inches of snow and/or ice. Bam. Fooled you. Then the Love Shack becomes an igloo, a dark, frigid igloo, and I wish I could hibernate until summer.
I grew up here, and I know this place, even though I spent 20 years in Los Angeles. I know February promises the impossible. Everyone who has been here for a while knows that summer begins July 5. I never remove my flannel sheets before June. I keep my heating pad handy year round. I wear fleece every day, even when the sun is shining, and a hat and fingerless gloves. I know this place. Although I guess I don't know everything. It's possible some of my misery is of my own making. Next time when I look for an apartment, I won't choose a place on the north side of a mountain.
