Minneapolis gets pretty damn dreary. Until Mother Nature decides to stop pelting us with inches upon inches of snow and ice storms and cyclone bombs, whatever the fuck those are, we pretty much don't crawl out from under our fuzzy blankets and flannel everything until about mid May. Ergo I get pretty used to being indoors. Frankly, I'm quite good at being "in". There's lots to do in here. Laundry. Netflix. Dishes. More Laundry. Netflix. You get it.
Despite my hibernation inclinations, the first few days of spring here in flyover country get me pretty excited. It's the time of the year that I actually WANT to go outside. I want to celebrate the melting slush, the smell of mold from all the leftover leaves that no one raked, the puddles of polluted water, the ice-free sidewalks punctuated with the poo from the city's dogs who are equally as excited to trot again in the open air. It's really quite delightful. And this year, spring has sprung early. Or so it seems. It's only March. Not even April yet. Allowing ourselves to believe that spring is actually here seems like setting ourselves up for disappointment and we certainly don't need any more of that, ammirite MN-ers?
Anyhoo, last weekend it turned damn near 50 degrees. And it's only March! Not even April yet! I was so. excited. Like spritely little sugar plumb ferries, the images of all the things I was going to to outside began dancing through my head. I'm going to go for a jog! No wait, a walk! With my headphones! On the clear sidewalks! In my SHOES!
And then a dose of reality hit me.
None of these images included strollers or bottles or sippy cups or nuks or diapers or ... children. Only my yoga pant clad self, jog-walking with a stupid happy smile on my face.
Husband is working all weekend and it's Saturday and Kid A has yet another bday party tomorrow morning that I haven’t bought a gift for yet, which means a trip to Target, which means I might as well make a list of other shit I need since I’m going to be there anyway, which means that’s an hour—scratch that—two hours of my day, just like that. And then there’s the laundry. Always the laundry. And taxes. I haven’t even done the damn taxes yet. And I'm still in my pajamas drinking coffee. And it's 10am. By the time I made it even half-way through this mental to-do list, it would be dark. And what kind of woman goes jog-walking in the dark anymore unless they have a serious affinity toward rape or possibly death?
So yes, it's fake spring and I love it and I still want to go outside. I haven't made it yet—I'm still "in". I hope to get "out" soon.
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