You guys, I’m emotionally exhausted.
This past week brought unseasonably warm temps to Minneapolis, which resulted in just about everyone losing their effing minds.
Seriously, that was pretty much the reaction of all of us here when we heard it was going to hit 70° in March.
And it did, and then it stayed warm.
For three whole days.
People left their homes!
Children rode bikes and played basketball—in shorts!
Garages were cleaned!
Legs were shaved!
Christmas lights were taken down!
Grills were pulled out and hamburger buns flew off the shelves for a three-night festival of meat!
Everyone with two working legs suddenly decided they needed to jog!
Gaggles of Canadian Geese appeared as if out of nowhere, reminding us how much we hate Canadian Geese!
There was a run on Frappuccinos!
Flip flops—flip flops—were unearthed, ugly toenails and cracked heels be damned!
Social media exploded, let me tell you.
I was deliriously happy.
Deliriously happy to wear short sleeves and have the sun’s warmth on my white, cracked skin (which I let soak in the Vitamin D for 15 whole minutes before slathering on the SPF 55—#suckitskincancer).
Deliriously happy to sit outside on my front walk watching throngs of happy kids bike or scooter by and wave at neighbors I haven’t seen since August. Of 2014.
Deliriously happy to drive in my car with the heater off and the windows open, singing to The Go-Go’s at the top of my lungs and even louder when I could tell the man waiting for the light on the corner heard me. ( I can wail on “How Much More,” let me tell you.)
Deliriously happy to go for a 4-mile walk and actually break a sweat. From heat.
Deliriously happy to have my house smell like fresh air instead of four months of depression.
But then, just when the sweet taste of hope started to thaw our dried up, frozen souls, the Minnesota March reality we know and loathe is coming back to slap us in the face for the next two weeks.
Temps in the 40s.
I put my flip flops away. I’m letting the hair grow back in on my legs. The bikes have been rehung on their hooks in the garage and the patio chairs recovered.
My treadmill actually laughed in my face this morning as it welcomed me back.
Living in this state—the geographical one and the emotional one—is exhausting, especially this time of year.
We never know whether to wear short sleeves or long, light jackets or parkas, or boots or sandals.
We never know if we should walk or drive, turn the heater on or off, laugh or cry.
Exhausting, but exciting, too. (Living here 18 years and for the foreseeable future forced me to say that, which proves that I am a beaten, worn out woman.)
Because even if it does snow two feet in March or even early April (which it has, many tearfully remembered times), we can start to see the light at the end of the long, frozen tunnel.
The light that’s leading us to trees with leaves and lakeside cocktails and trail rides that go for miles.
The light that’s leading us to dinners on the deck and sunset cruises and outdoor markets.
(The light that’s also leading us to tornado warnings and dripping humidity and mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds, but as usual, I’m choosing to ignore that light.)
I’ve got it. Exhaustion, hairy legs and all.
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