The sun has been shining all week. Little birds are singing show tunes as they flirt and flutter from tree to tree. Burrard Station is awash in a thick canopy of cherry blossom trees in full bloom.
I hate it. I hate it all.
As a part-time photographer in a city famous for its rain, I am required to take advantage of the good weather and fresh flowers while they last.
As a rest-of-the-time grumbling malcontent, spring can kiss my ass. And I’m not saying that just because my ass could use a little kissing after Daylight Saving Time just kicked it so thoroughly.
By some cosmic joke, I was born near the end of April, right smack dab in the middle of the season I hate the most. Most people with seasonal blues experience them in the winter, or slightly more rarely, the summer. Me? I get mine in the spring, during the otherwise traditional time of hope and renewal and all that bullshit.
The Universe: “Happy Birthday, Nutty. I got you some apathy.”
The Nut: “Aw, just like last year. Thanks, Universe.”
I’m out. You can keep your stupid tulips and your zombie Jesus and your blatantly shrunken Cadbury Creme Eggs (yeah that’s right, Cadbury, I said it). It’s not even officially spring for another eleven days but already I just want to find a cool dark place and hibernate until it’s over. The bears will know where you can forward my birthday presents.
The problem is, I really, really fucking love winter. And I don’t like it being taken away. We don’t see much of it in my ridiculously temperate city, so I jealously guard what little we do get and savor it as long as I can. Frosty mornings. A fairy tale world glittering in ice crystals. The crunch of my boots in fresh snow as I wander silent woods. Starting a snowball fight with the love of my life before having an idiot moment that he will never let me live down.
Nutty Hubby gets where I’m coming from. We’re both winter beings. We got married in February despite everyone calling us crazy, and we were thrilled when it snowed the night before the wedding. And while finally saying our “I Do”s was certainly the best part of the next day, chucking snowballs at each other in our formal wear later that evening (to the amusement of our photographers) was a close second.
So when spring rolls around, advertising the end of my favorite season in a showy, arrogant display of pastel petals and hideously unappetizing pink Starbucks pastry bags, especially in a year where our entire “winter” consisted of three days of snow, a couple foggy mornings, and an only mildly hypothermic partridge in a pear tree, that’s when I start composing the irrational mental hate mail.
Dear Punxsutawney Phil,
You bastard. Six more weeks of winter my Aunt Fanny. Can’t you make a prediction that applies to my side of the continent for once? “You will have unseasonably warm weather, shitty skiing conditions, and one brief freak frost that occurs solely to ruin all those early-blooming magnolias you wanted to photograph.” WOULD THAT BE SO HARD? I hope someone hands me your little rodent butt on a platter for my birthday so I can finish what Bill Murray started.
Dear Weather Gods,
Is one of you asleep at Vancouver’s climate controls? I know we’re on the west coast and all, but we’re still part of Canada. SO ACT LIKE IT. If I can wear short sleeves in the office before May, then you are not doing your job.
Dear House Stark,
Winter is not coming. Winter is never coming. The east coast has more winter than they could ever want but I have none, so you few remaining Starks can just shut your fucking yaps about it already.
Dear Thick, Fluffy Sweaters,
It’s not goodbye, not really. I will see you again next year, my loves. You sleep now. You snuggle up with my scarves and you sleep, my darlings.
WHY DO WE KEEP SAVING YOU?
Also I just learned yesterday that PEEPS® milk is a thing that is happening, so thank you Prairie Farms for hammering that final nail into my vernal hate-coffin.
I’ll catch you all later. I’m off to see some bears about a cave.
P.S. To the inevitable commenters pausing their shoveling to flip me the bird and offer to send me all their snow if I love it so much: YES PLEASE. GIMME ALL UR WINTERZ. How am I ever going to lecture my future children about how easy they have it if I can’t regale them with tales of how I used to commute to work in snowshoes uphill both ways?