I know that we're supposed to be welcoming spring, but, to be honest, I could really just bypass it this year and go straight to summer. I am craving warm weather like a pregnant lady craves pickles. I am longing for sundresses, picnics, urban hikes, and late night trips to Mitchell's for some purple ube or thai iced tea ice cream. I want to temporarily retire my coats and long sleeves, sneak into a pool somewhere, watch people go down the giant slip 'n slide they set up in the park, check out the free outdoor movies, build a giant sand castle at Baker Beach, rent a row boat at Stow Lake, go to a Giant's game, indulge in a cold summer ale.
Don't get me wrong, I don't mean to wish away what we have. I am grateful for spring- the rebirth and all. Trouble is, it still feels like winter. I am still wearing my footie pajamas and sleeping in the TV room because my own room feels like a little slice of Antarctica. In fact, the polar bears and penguins that have taken up residency there, just today, asked if I had some scarves they might borrow.
I am very aware that I have quite a while until summer, especially a San Francisco summer, since they like to arrive fashionably late, but there's nothing wrong with wishing. Nothing wrong with planning day trips to the Musee Mecanique after watching small children brave the chilly Pacific and organizing bonfires at Ocean Beach across from the windmill. Nothing wrong with envisioning spritzers on the sidewalk of a cafe, visualizing myself waking up and heading over to Dolores Park in order to fall asleep blanketed by the sun. Nothing wrong with imagining the weight of a runaway tennis ball in my hand before tossing it back over the fence.