Perhaps my internal clock is wound too tight, or just spring loaded.
Every year — shortly after vernal equinox but well before summer solstice — I come down with spring fever. After weathering the end of winter blahs, it is a sickness I greet with open pale arms.
As is often the case with early spring fever, I treat my symptoms with an eight ounce dose of STA-BIL and a shot of fogging oil. Despite lingering dirty snow piles — or because of them — this weekend I winterized the snowblower. I also put the 1972 Ski-Doo to bed; which at its age this could be the big sleep.
Even the choppers and chuke made an early exit into the mudroom closet. That's mittens and stocking cap for the U.P. Yooper uninitiated.
In northern Michigan, any of the above translates as an obscene gesture of your choice in the face of Old Man Winter. Or merely delusions of March 20 grandeur.
Since childhood, I've suffered from bouts of early spring fever. As a kid, I'd go from mindful to mindless when the mercury hit above 50 degrees. A few rays of sunshine and my cognitive skills were fried. Unlike my milk and dust allergies, I've never outgrown early spring fever.
Of course if your birthday falls in April, you know why T.S. Eliot called it the cruelest month.
I still vividly recall riding my new banana seat bike through stagnant snow piles. Lance Armstrong might have conquered the Alps but I bet he never pedaled in Moon Boots. There was also the irony of losing your new baseball in old white stuff. Although playing frozen lawn Jarts introduced a ricochet element not seen in July.
So this time of year, when early spring fever strikes, my inner child begs me to come out and play. As a dutiful adult, I ignore the little voice and try to type around it. Which is why it has taken me two hours to write the previous 327 words; not including this independent clause linked by a semicolon.
Staying focused while in the throws of early spring fever is no easy task. Your mind doesn't just wander, it roves, it digresses, it runs pell-mell. Chalk it up to sun deprivation and ingesting too much Play-Doh as a kid.
According to the calendar, spring has official sprung. Just look around: the fair-weather robin has returned and ice cream shop patrons have begun their swallows of Capistrano migration. Signs of spring are everywhere. For internal clock watchers like myself, it can't come a minute too soon.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or email gleiva@gtherald.com.