I have been to high school. I have lived at college. I have seen flirting at its best and worst. And March is the worst, like that blonde in high school you knew that couldn't walk past anything with a Y chromosome without trying to seduce it. March is that blonde. Blonde March. It saunters in after meek little February and sort of waggles its fingers at you, batting its eyelashes and beckoning you to hope in its promises of Spring. You think it's safe to break out your flip flops and short-sleeved shirts. Maybe you even take a walk outside without a jacket. And then it hits you with a snowstorm. You are left outside, be-flip flopped, jacketless, in the snow, like all good romantic comedies. Or a Hemingway novel. Rejection. Ouch.
Today, however. Oh, today. Today is payback for two weeks of rain and sub-freezing temperatures. Yesterday the high was 61 degrees. Today it is 73 and sunny. North Park is celebrating in full force: walking to my apartment from class, I was greeted by one Tom Rorem (our resident troubadour if anyone deserves the title) standing on the roof of his two-flat with his guitar, singing across the campus scene; I stumbled into the middle of a glow-frisbee golf tournament on the Greenspace when exiting the library around midnight last night; I have seen more people in jeans and flip flops walking to class in the past 45 minutes than I have seen in the past six months. It's a North Parker's delight.
Class levels will go down today in favor of greener pastures and sunlight, for tomorrow bids a 50-degree high. Again with the Hemingway and the rejection and the flirting. Come on, March! Seriously? Maybe we need to have a RDT. I'll meet you in the gazebo...things usually turn out for the better there.