For the first time in I don't know how many trips around the sun, I made it through winter without slipping and falling. When it snowed here in New York as the vernal equinox ensued, I almost took it personally, like it was Mother Nature's malicious last attempt to violently reintroduce my ass to the pavement.
I even managed to avoid getting a cold this year! But although nothing winter-specifically horrible happened, I was really excited for spring to start. Like so many others, I'd grown tired of the freezing temperatures and the general malaise of the season. I'd started daydreaming about birds chirping, shopping at outdoor flea markets, wearing shoes without socks. Just imagine!
And yet, a week into spring, I'm already kind of over it. I know I haven't given it much of a chance, but it's already giving me agita.
April showers bring... defiant hair
I realize April is still a few days away, but the raininess associated with it is already kicking in — and with it, the above-freezing humidity that undoes any valiant styling efforts I've made with my hair.
Just yesterday, I took the time to create smooth, loose curls with my curling wand and was really happy with the results. However, by the time I reached my destination and despite a healthy helping of a finishing product, my hair had clearly succumbed to drizzle and mugginess.
My friends said it looked "beachy" and "mermaid-y," but let's be honest. It looks got-stuck-in-a-bladeless-blender-y.
Getting older doesn't bother me, but not knowing if I should do anything to celebrate my birthday does.
It feels weird to throw myself a birthday party, so that's not gonna happen. I might ask some friends to come out for karaoke, but then there's the whole issue of deciding what night of the week (my birthday falls on a Sunday) and where; do I ask people to come to my neighborhood, or do I pick something more convenient to the potential attendees? Then there's the whole awkwardness of letting people buy me drinks — I feel so uncomfortable accepting booze donations all night.
I've considered subtracting the alcohol aspect from the plans and asking friends to join me on nice little daytime trip to the Prospect Park Zoo, but then, I have some friends who are anti-zoo and I don't want to offend them.
Ugh. Maybe I'll just stay home. But that brings me to my next point.
Wanting to hide out at home most of the time is almost expected during the winter, but as the weather warms up, people want to, like, go outside and stuff. A lot. I do, too, kind of. But sometimes, I still just want to stay inside.
That, of course, means being well aware of all of the things I'm not participating in; and even though I may initially prefer to stay home, I start getting horrible anxiety about what I'm missing. I have been known to look longingly out my window at street fairs below as if I were locked in a tower, when in fact I just don't want to put on a bra.
I have no idea what to wear
OK, let's say FOMO wins and I do put on a bra. What do I put on over it?
Spring is seriously the most frustrating time of year to get dressed. It can be both 40 and 60 degrees in the same day, and as someone who starts perspiring as soon as she enters a subway station, I'm not exactly excited about layering — it only looks stylish when you're not conspicuously sweating through each layer.
I'm excited to free my feet from all-boots-all-the-time, but from the ankles up? I'm a study in sartorial confusion.
The whistler at the window
It sounds like a horror movie, I know. And it kind of is. EXCEPT IT'S MY REAL LIFE.
There's an old man in the building next to mine who, come spring, sits at his open window and whistles at people passing by on the sidewalk. He doesn't know these people — he just wants to share his whistling gift with everyone he sees.
Except it's not a gift. He is, in fact, tone-deaf. He whistles the same two things — "Shave and a Haircut" and the classic wolf-whistle — on the same single wrong note, over and over, all day long on any day that's warm enough to sit at the window.
He has not emerged yet this year, but my anxious anticipation of that first pitch-imperfect chirp is almost as bad as the whistling itself. I've caught myself wondering if perhaps he gently passed away in his sleep during the winter; but more often, I wonder if there's anything I can do, short of his or my death, to make it stop. Calling 311? Posting a note on the front door of his building? Leaving him a box of Saltines?
Despite these spring inconveniences, I'm committed to trying to enjoy it. Realistically, I know these things are just annoyances and not real problems. Let's be honest: the real problems start in summer.
Are you more excited about spring than I am, or are you sort of pushing it around with your fork like a vegetable you don't really want to eat?