This is how spring creeps up on me: the craving for color and light, and a restlessness that tickles me awake.

The easiest injection of color comes in a little box from the pharmacy. It isn’t too bright, but the hair is definitely redder. Pictures pending. And my inner girly girl, which only activates in rare pulses, buys that more vibrant, popping, shinier blouse (well, since I don’t wear a uniform to work anymore, I do need on a very practical level professional clothing so I am only being somewhat sensible . . .)

And then I find myself buzzing around this little space that is mine, house envy stifled, and I jack up the most lively music available, and I suddenly want to dance to the silliest songs (fiance out shopping, cats off napping) just because it feels so fucking good and, hell, who’s watching . . .

Look out the window and catch that sunlight, and I dare you to not feel something. Who cares that it is a white lie, and that the air itself is still cold and harsh on the face. Give me sunshine over the gray, and let me will spring on if only in my wistfulness.

When the real thing gets here, I’m ready.