March 8, 2000

Early spring fever strikes

By GARRET LEIVA
Herald editor
       If T.S. Eliot thought April was the cruelest month, he should have tried a nice Monday afternoon in March. "The Wasteland" is paradise compared to the inhumanity of staring at a computer screen while sitting in a windowless basement office.
      That is why I'm sick. My face isn't flush, there is no profuse sweating or shaking and yet I'm suffering ill affects. It doesn't take an MD behind your name to reach a diagnosis - classic ESF or early spring fever.
      Unfortunately, this is not the first time I've dealt with this debilitating disease. Since early childhood, my chromosomes and I have struggled with ESF. Genetically speaking, I seem predisposed to goofing off.
      The most obvious trait of early spring fever is psychological. Deep in the recessed folds of my cerebrum, I go from mindful to mindless when the mercury outside hits above 50 degrees. A few rays of sunshine and my cognitive skills are fried.
      Staying focused while suffering from ESF is clearly no easy task. Your mind doesn't just wander, it cavorts, it frolics, it digresses, it runs willy-nilly. Even the dutiful conscience halfheartedly chases down racing thoughts.
      As a kid, a sunny March day spent at school was indeed a cruel twist of fate. Sure there was recess and lunch time, but a bite of dangling carrot can be bittersweet. Especially after a hot lunch of goulash and green beans.
      Perhaps that is why my springtime report card reflected the marks of ESF: 'needs to work on listening skills.' 'not working up to ability.' Frankly, I could have cared less if train A traveling at 25 mph and train B traveling at 15 mph ever encountered each other. Unless the story problemville railroad would take this fourth-grade hobo far down the tracks.
      Instead, my listening ears would sneak outside with my wandering mind; playing frozen tag and touch football, jumping off swings and into mud puddles. My nine-year-old eyes staring forlorn out the window; wishing I could join the rest of me out on the monkey bars.
      While I hardly swing on monkey bars anymore, on nice March days my inner child begs me to come out and play. Instead, I ignore the little voice and diligently answer phone calls and type words. Pushing aside thoughts of biking the VASA, walking the dog or wrenching on the 1972 Pontiac LeMans parked in the garage. Perhaps this is why I'm in a subterranean room without a view.
      Yes, this time of year can be cruel indeed. It can be especially barbaric when you have a fever that rises with the heat index.
      Perhaps an ESF sick day is in order. The next sunny afternoon maybe my wandering mind, listening ears and inner child will all hop the next train A out of story problemville. Who knows, the rest of me might go along for the ride too.
      Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or gleiva@gtherald.com.