Ugly Spring

 

It's ugly spring in Iowa – that awkward time of transition between winter and true spring.

As temperatures climb, Mother Nature begins her seductive striptease of cold-weather attire. She slowly raises her snowbank skirts, the lace-melted edges sullied by sand and dirt, to expose more leggy lawn each day. Her tired sod is mottled brown-gray by matted grass and moldering leaves, lined by varicose trash veins, and pocked by dog poo. 

Still, this suggestive glimpse of green provides an illicit thrill to our winter-weary core. We respond instinctively, desire overriding better judgement.

But Old Man Winter is a persistent suitor. The wind carries his whispered forget-me-nots, an icy finger caressing the nape of our necks. We awaken to find his frosty love notes written on windows and clinging to bare limbs.

We know Mother Nature is fickle. We know she will abandon us, lured away by the beauty of a diamond-flake flurry or fleeing the ire of sleet and ice. Her come-hither warmth beckons, only to be replaced by a (literal) cold shoulder. Her sunny smile gives way to the glower of gray clouds.

And yet we respond with child-like optimism, baring arms and legs and feet – sweatshirts replaced by tank tops, pants giving way to shorts, flip flops kicking aside boots. We endure her seasonal petulance, knowing that soon (Soon? Soon!) she will be ours.

Already, snowmelt giggles softly as it trips over ticklesome, pebble-lined gutters, sprouts foolishly poke forth from the warm shelter of foundations, parkas are relegated to the backs of closets and shovels are replaced by rakes.

Spring – true Spring – has begun her courtship and we are helpless against her charms.

Fashion Springs Fauxward

Spring has sprung in Eastern Iowa.

Or at least spring has sprung in the minds of clothing retailers in Eastern Iowa.

Mother Nature seems to have a different opinion. Then again, that is the nature of spring in Eastern Iowa – warm one day, cold the next; sunny one day, rainy the next three; rainy one day, snowy the next, melted the day after that.

After a week of unseasonably warm weather, we muddled through a week of seasonably unpredictable weather, only to be smacked upside the head with a weekend of unseasonably seasonable cold and wet weather.

That's Iowa. That's Spring. We're just as likely to shiver through graveside observances on Memorial Day as we are to sweat through them.

I only whine about this because The Princess and I did some uncharacteristically successful shopping recently. I was looking forward to wearing a new, short sleeve outfit, even if it was only around the house.

Instead I'm wearing a sweatshirt and fuzzy socks.

Spring clothing displays at the mall are every bit as enticing as those gardening catalogs you receive in January. They're both so full of promise, potential and color. They brim with the anticipation of warmer, sunnier, longer, busier, more vibrant days. They tempt us to throw off our winter doldrums. They encourage us to drag ourselves out of our suffocating winter rut. To plan a blue-sky escape.

Retailers feed our growing resentment of bulky layers and head to toe coverage, displaying outfits that seem to shrink from both ends, simultaneously exposing shoulders and legs. Tank tops, spaghetti straps, cold shoulder and off the shoulder blouses are paired with cropped pants, capri pants and ever shorter and shorter shorts. Dresses are frothy and loose, form fitting and curve hugging.

Boutiques burgeon with everything pastel and white and sweet and floral and delicate. They sprout aggressive patches of  navy blue, black and rust, bursting with big, loud, geometric patterns. Because, hey, this is fashion and we'll wear whatever the designers tell us to wear.

Spring is a season of optimism. That's what drives us out to our yards to rake and clean and plant. That's what sends us to the mall in search of a fresh, clean, new look.

Optimism whispers that yes, we can squeeze into a trendy pair of leggings and the gauzy swing blouse that looks so adorable on that size 0, headless mannequin.

Spring shakes its head, hands us a pair of baggy sweatpants, and tells us to lay off the ice cream for a couple of weeks while we wait for the unseasonably warm weather to become seasonable again.

Spring It On Me

As I was hunkering down for yet another winter weather advisory during "spring," it occurred to me that we really need a term that means "fake spring."

We call those rare, beautifully warm, late autumn days "Indian Summer," so why not have some nickname for those brief stretches of warm weather in early-early spring? Those days that trick us into putting away the snow pants, boots, heavy coats, hats, mittens and flannel jammies. Those intoxicatingly sunny days that Mother Nature follows up with a smack upside the head mix of snow, rain and wind? Or as I like to call it, Crap In A Cloud.

It fools me every year. A couple of nice, warm days and I move the turtlenecks to the bottom of the drawer. The Little Princess fell for it this year, too. Every morning for a week I had to send her back to her room to change into long pants and real shoes. Finally, with my Mom of the Year stock falling faster than the S&P 500, I let her wear her flip flops to school.

It snowed that day. Not much, but still.

That was also the day I also sent the Little Prince to school without his hat or gloves. I'm sure there were a few non-Mom teachers who were eying that Child Protective Services speed-dial button on their phones. On the up-side, the children now listen to my weather predictions with awe and reverence and don't even roll their eyes when I tell them to put on long sleeves.

Global warming be darned, this is not a new weather trick. When I was a kid, those first few warm spring days would lure all the little old ladies out of their houses to putter around in their yards. They'd rake leaves off flower beds and pick up sticks, their floral house dresses and chiffon scarves ruffled by gentle breezes.

Then in a colossal April Fools joke, Mother Nature would laugh, turn the thermostat back to 35 degrees and crank up the wind machine. The ladies would venture out again, floral hems peeking out from beneath woolen overcoats, knit scarves securing the chiffon scarves, rubber overshoes flopping about their ankles as they replaced the Styrofoam igloos covering the roses and spread sheets over tender flower buds.

Today their counterparts wear shiny, bead-dazzled warm up suits and flock to the casinos. You can't blame them, the weather in there is much better.

Fool me once spring weather, shame on you. Fool me over and over again and obviously we need government intervention. A task force must be assembled, funds must be appropriated, commissions appointed. But first we need a catchy title, which I would be glad to furnish (for a small consultant's fee, of course).

"Fake Spring" is brief and to the point, but a little harsh. "Faux Spring" has a nicer ring, but is a bit snobbish and hoity-toity. It needs to be a name that captures the essence of promises made, but not made good.

Like Politician Spring. Or more accurately, Candidate Spring.

Maybe even Office of Spring-Elect.