It’s now February end, and spring is striding rapidly to take winter’s place with summer heeling directly behind it, ready to spew its aerosol mist of heat and humidity and sweat into the air… misery. Yet, people seem to prefer these seasons to autumn and winter. Why? It’s beyond me. Personally, I dread the oncoming saunter of summer as I do Hell and pray for the hasty return of winter chill that I’ll surely be denied, of course.
There’s just not enough winter. The temperature doesn’t start cooling until mid to late November, and the cold lasts until roughly mid to late February. If there were some sort of equilibrium, I wouldn’t even be writing this estranged opinion. But there isn’t, at least not in Louisiana. Nope. Down here in the big boot, spring is as hot as hell and summer is as hot as the ninth circle… or the twelfth circle… whichever circle is the hottest! And spring, being the initial thief, steals all of March from winter. The first twenty-one days of March that, year after year, the jumpy heat of spring can’t resist the urge to pounce on regardless of what Phil the groundhog sees, might as well be known as the first of spring rather than the last of winter. Shadow or no shadow, six more weeks or an early spring, love it or hate it, the heat is coming. It arrives on the first of March and overstays its welcome until late October, when, finally, it trickles away, in the same manner as an annoying house guest spends over an hour milking the leaving-process; no “Goodbye!” or “See ya!” then out the door, but instead, it’s “Goodbye!” and “I think I lost my car keys. You know? This reminds me of something funny…” then one thing leads to another and the douchebag is back on the couch, comfy as a kitten on a cool tin roof. Eight months of sweat, and four left over, is what it all (quite literally) boils down to.
The lopsided ratio between hot days and cool ones should warrant at least a little reservation of space for the winter season in the hearts of the heat-lovers. Sure, aesthetically, spring and summer showup winter with ease, but what else could be expected? Winter has been kicked around, shoved aside, and taken for granted for so long that its visage is, in and of itself, a sad, sad story, all gloom and doom and grey and somber. I jest, of course, but give me a break. I love winter.