Me and spring? We’re through.
This is the conclusion I came to after getting caught in a hailstorm during a run earlier this week. It was sunny when I departed my house, and then, 3 miles into my exercise, the hail started and I was still 2 miles from home. Frozen pebbles bounced off the road, nearby mailboxes and my head as I raced back to my house, soaking wet and freezing cold.
Sometimes it takes hitting rock bottom to realize just how bad your relationship is. And those 2 miles running through hail was my rock bottom in my relationship with springtime in Utah.
Spring season here in the Wasatch Front this year has been following the same patterns as a toxic boyfriend. Maybe toxic girlfriends, too, I just can’t speak to that experience.
It started with what the kids refer to as love bombing — a bombardment of affection early in the relationship. We had a week in March that felt like receiving an extravagant gift every single day. The sun shone for the first time in months, warming us both physically and emotionally. Buds appeared on tree limbs and previously brown, dormant shrubs began their transformation to vibrant green. A generally jovial mood swept the valley and strangers smiled at each other everywhere I went.
Every morning when the sunlight poured into my home through my windows, it felt like receiving a “Hello, Beautiful” text from the love of my life. Spring and I were going to be so happy together, for the rest of time, I foolishly thought. And I wasn’t alone. My kids wore shorts to school. Our dog chose to spend most of her day outside, lounging on the back patio. Neighbors gathered outdoors. We were all blissful with this new love in our lives.
But then spring disappeared. There was nary a proverbial “Hello Beautiful” text for weeks. Every morning, we begrudgingly awoke to gray, looming skies. Those clouds sometimes brought rain, and sometimes snow. We had to bring out the winter coats and snow boots again for my kids to wear to school. My dog refused to go outside even when she really, really needed to go outside.
Spring ghosted us. It made us think we were going to have a happily ever after and then it just disappeared, leaving us heartbroken. My daughter actually cried when she saw a blanket of snow on the ground one morning in late March.
The dreary weather lasted weeks, and I swore I wouldn’t be fooled when spring, inevitably, came crawling back. Which it did. And when it did, I’m sorry to report, the clarity I had found in our time apart dissolved just as soon as the sun peeked out over the nearest mountaintop. I was love-struck again. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I was even more love-struck this time. I thought for sure spring and I were going to stick. Because every relationship has its ups and downs, I reasoned. And surely, our time apart made us stronger.
I was happy. My family was happy. My kids volunteered to help with the garden. We opened our windows during the day to let the fresh air in. My dog resumed her position on the back patio. We were all so, so blissful to have spring back in our lives.
Then the clouds rolled in and hailstones hammered my head during what I had assumed would be a pleasant jog outdoors. I had fallen for the charms of spring again, and I was left heartbroken, again.
The worst part is that this is not the first time spring has done this to me. Or to all of us who live here. Every single year since I can remember, it has snowed at least once in May.
On April 30, 15 years ago, I awoke on my wedding day to a blizzard outside. Our wedding photos feature many umbrellas and images of guests shivering in their warm-weather attire.
Spring has always been like this — not really what it claims. It’s not the loving companion we all want it to be. It’s the toxic ex who should be saved in our phones as DO NOT ANSWER, if not blocked altogether. It cannot be trusted to commit, even if it promises to stay this time, every time.
I’ve decided I’d be happier looking to summer for happiness. Because summer at least knows who it is. A little too warm, sure, and a veritable mosquito all-you-can-eat-buffet, but it’s at least consistent. It knows who it is and what it wants. It hangs around when it’s supposed to — sometimes even a bit longer than it’s supposed to.
The same cannot be said for spring. Which is why spring and I? We’re through.
At least until next year.
