It Might as Well be Spring--Seriously, why wait?

Sunday it was spring. Actually, it was the first day of spring. It was 70 degrees; the sun shone bright and warmed my skin. A light breeze stirred the brittle grasses that lay in wait for the new to sprout up and displace them. But on Monday it was winter again. The high was 38 degrees and gobs of slush fell from the sky, as if some terrible giantess kept blowing her nose, farmer style, toward the earth. I have never seen a farmer doing this, though no doubt some of them do. What would you do alone in a field, miles from the nearest tissue? But the point is, it was miserable on Monday, and the splendor of Sunday made the cold that much more unbearable. You see, in Iowa there are many first days of spring every year. They generally start in March and continue until June, when spring finally comes at last and ceases to taunt us like a child showing a cat a tasty bit of hotdog, then whipping it behind his back.

So, in protest of this delay, I've decided to behave as if spring has come in earnest. I painted my fingernails pink and, tomorrow, I plan on wearing a pink top. I refuse to wear my winter coat any longer. I plan on buying an ice cream tomorrow and eating it as I wait for the bus. If necessary, I will eat it in the snow. I will eat it just for show. I will not rest till winter leaves. For spring is here, if you believe.