It’s on days like this that I think I need a lobotomy. The sun is shining, a sweet breeze swirls the smells of freshly mown grass and bright new blossoms, children squeal and play, and all I feel is vague dread. What’s wrong with me?
Now here comes the ice cream truck, that pied piper of push-ups and popsicles, and the kids squeal even more. Bees buzz, birds sing, dogs yawp. It’s Sunday in the springtime. What next, the 90-degree sweat fest of summer?
I’m playing devil’s advocate, as today is actually pleasant, what everyone refers to with unabashed triteness as “such a nice day.” Highs barely nick 65 degrees and wisps of clouds filter the sunshine for a matte finish. You can even wear a light sweatshirt and not have a stroke.
(Oddly, many people are wearing shorts, that most unflattering of attire, when it’s not even close to called for. But humans do love their shorts. And, equally unbecoming, their flip-flops. “Summer fashion” — the great oxymoron.)
No, really, I like this day, and I’m not a spring or summer person. I start to get nervous when the 70s encroach, and when it’s 80 or more I’m gone, chilling with the AC set on igloo.
I’m sitting on the patio writing this, the dog basking in the sun on the toasty deck, a leaf blower roaring in the distance with fossil-fuel fury, a babel of voices in the air. “I think your sister has a crush,” a girl no more than seven informs her friend as they pass by and I wish I could hear more of that gossipy gab. “Jason. Come. Here. Now.” says an aggravated mom. A man calls his dog. Its name is Swoosh.
I feel like an interloper, because, really, I’m not supposed to like this weather, this kind of squeaky, sunshiny suburban idyll. But on this day it’s alright. Now I’ve really lost it: I think I’m going to take a brisk walk.