Sproing!!!

That's the sound of nature, which has apparently decided to emulate that paragon of precipitousness,  Tigger, by careening up to 77 degrees and sunny in mid-February.  MID.  FEBRUARY.  I kid you not.

Today the temperature is supposed to sink to a relatively restrained 60, but I'm still miffed.   This can't really be called winter weather by any self-respecting denizen of north of tropical, so I'm left with the massive cognitive dissonance of wearing a t-shirt while trying to maintain a state of mind appropriate to the fact that it is still, or at least SHOULD BE, winter.

Winter is not much fun, but it's necessary.  It's the work to summer's weekend, sleep to summer's morning, years of dating cross-eyed actuaries to summer's great first date with your husband-to-be.  You have to make it though one, or you don't fully appreciate the other.

Which is not to say that winter doesn't have its good points.  It's an in-turned time, a time for reflecting and repairing and reading a whole bunch of novels while giving thanks for the fact that you are no longer living in a time or place that requires you to erect your own house from blocks of ice.  Without a good, long winter, spring feels cheap, like love you didn't earn.

That damn groundhog.