Spring is in the Air

Yep, it's that time of year again. You step outside, take a deep, slow breath, feel the warm sunshine on your face, and you think to yourself, "What the hell is that smell"? Then it hits you: it's March. And you know what that means. That means the humidity comes back. For those of you not immediately familiar with the southeastern regions of the United States, I should explain what I mean by humidity. In the plain meteorological terms which apply everywhere else in the world, humidity refers, simplistically, to the moisture content of the atmosphere. Here in the quaint little geographic oddity where I live, humidity is a highly ironic euphemism for the ubiquitous, suffocating miasma that broods in the air waiting for a chance to envelop you bodily and condense until you're drenched to the skin (which usually takes about thirty seconds, depending on your attire). This can become a problem. Some enterprising individuals seek temporary relief by wearing rain slickers when they are forced to travel out of doors, or by hiding in a neighbor's sauna to dry off for a bit. By the peak of the season--usually just prior to the peak of summer--residents are advised to periodically apply a light coating of marine-grade preservative to shrubberies and small pets which must be left outside for long periods of time. Which brings me back to where we came in: the smell. After about two days, three at the outside, this roiling, saturated atmosphere begins to undergo some little-understood chemical process by which it breaks down into roughly the same substances which might be found in the velour upholstery of a Buick that has been submerged in the Everglades for a month. And so as if it weren't enough trouble lugging around the aqualung all the time, we then find ourselves immersed for months at a stretch in a fetid, reeking, wet-dog fug that not even Old Spice will penetrate. They never print this stuff in the travel brochures...

Remember though, how I said that in March the humidity comes back? Yes, we do get something of a short reprieve during the coldest of the winter months. Where does the humidity--foul and wretched thing of evil--go? We don't know, and frankly we're not interested in finding out, except insomuch as we might strive to avoid wherever it is. But it, like that odd uncle who always drinks too much and gets into arguments with his dead wife at family reunions, always comes back. And when it does, it's a sure sign that spring is near at hand, hanging precariously in the air, ready to fall headlong upon us like a drunken 250-pound frat boy plunging into a swimming pool after balancing on the railing of a second-story balcony while trying to urinate into a manicured bed of Mr. Lincoln roses. Not only will we once more have air moist enough to shower in and redolent of fried goat to look forward to, but inches-thick blankets of plant pollen and virulent, cruelly self-aware strains of plant life as well. Oh, and let us not forget the heat-seeking, armor-plated, nuclear powered, GPS-equipped killer attack wasps that always choose to live and/or mate in unfortunate locations, such as under the small of your back as you lie shirtless on the grass--which is extremely foolish for a number of other reasons, some of which we will discuss at another time.

Oh, I know, I hear you. Spring is for lovers, you say. Spring is a magical time of rebirth, when the world comes alive after a bleak winter slumber, a time when everything is wrought with the electricity of...whatever. Balls. It's hard to be romantic when you've rendered yourself semi-conscious with over-the-counter antihistamines trying to combat pollen allergies. As for rebirth, I suppose I can't argue that. Mosquitoes proliferate by the trillions this time of year. And I've only ever encountered electricity in the springtime once before...

...when I nearly electrocuted myself repairing damage caused by my faithful lawn maintenance machinery in pursuit of a feeble attempt to keep my lawn in check.


I think I'll just stay inside till Thanksgiving.