Reverse psychology

Everyone in Northern Ontario is sick of winter. This fact was established a month ago when spring officially rolled in, but winter refused to bend and raged on, taking with it our hopes for an early spring barbecue, tulips in April, and shopping for new spring clothes.

For the past couple of weeks, it's been snowing every few days. And not the kind of snow that just trickles down and melts on impact. This snow builds up, then melts the next day, taking everyone to the point of ALMOST believing spring is just around the corner. For a few moments, the sun will come out and the world is as it should be. Everything is rosy and spring is buying us flowers and telling us how good we look in our new jeans, taking us out for expensive dinners and holding our hands. Then winter rears its hideous head again, and down comes another five to ten centimeters of snow. 

If winter were a man, I'd have broken up with it weeks ago. I would have told it that I just can't do this anymore. All of the mind games, thinking it had changed into spring, and then getting my heart broken over and over again. I'd have given winter back all it's junk, it's snow shovels and mittens and winter boots, and told it not to try and contact me again. 

Even my Pops, who NEVER complains about the weather, is feeling the It Should be Spring Blues. Too warm to ski-doo, too cold to do yardwork (not to mention the yard is still covered in a couple feet of snow.) A couple of weekends ago, it was, once again, calling for snow. I decided to play a little game with Winter. I would go to the lake and spend a perfect winter weekend with my Pops. I went to the library and picked up a couple of books. Visions of hot chocolate, steambaths, and walks in the wintery woods danced in my head. If winter's not going away, I thought, I'll act like I've fallen in love all over again. I'll act like I never want it to leave. I'll be that clingy, needy girlfriend no one wants. I'll scare winter off with my incessant text messages and 3 a.m. half-cut phone calls.

The weekend was everything I'd hoped it would be. My pops and I read all weekend in his cozy house in the bush with the woodstove burning, stopping only to make each other delicious food (him: homemade pizza and a breakfast of fried balogna and scrambled eggs; me: roast chicken with pasta and roasted root veggies). We also took a break from our books to watch the Leafs beat the shit out of the Habs and take a walk on his property in the woods.

And suddenly, just like that, I wasn't pretending anymore. Just like the turning point in your favourite romantic comedy, I realized this whole winter thing - not so bad when you can be at the lake, warm and cozy, spending time with your Pops.

I'm still anxiously awaiting spring - but with a little less anger in my heart. 

I no longer want to kick winter in the junk and leave it in the fetal position crying hot tears that will melt the snow.

Then again, a quick wedgie when no one's looking probably wouldn't hurt either.