The last football game = spring

Super Bowl Sunday is upon us, and not a moment too soon, if you ask me. By now, I’m just completely and thoroughly done with all of it, and ready to move forward. So let’s get this over with and go on with our lives.

Obviously, I’m not talking about football season. In fact, I’d take year-round football if I could get it. So don’t think for a second I’m glad that’s over with. Nothing could be further from the truth.

If you ask me, though, Super Bowl Sunday represents the last gasp of winter, and winter, I’m absolutely done with.

I’m tired of being cold. In my youth, I didn’t get cold. I wouldn’t mind if it was nine degrees below zero outside with a wind chill registering “OMG, stay indoors or you will be instantly made solid like those Greek dudes that looked at the chick with the snakey spiral perm”. I could walk outside coatless in conditions like that and barely register that it was a tad chilly. Nowadays, though, with my advancing age and effective blood pressure medicines, if the temperature dips below 72 at la casa de Puddin, I’m looking for furniture to burn.

I could use some moderate weather.

I tired of everyone being sick. Last week, at least three different coworkers were out with various ailments. Worse than that, for two months now I’ve been reduced to treating my children as if they’re potentially carrying the bubonic plague because they’re exposed daily to hundreds of other children that, in my mind, are walking, talking, snotting Petri dishes of disease incubation. No one should have to gel-up with the antibacterial before giving Daddy a hug.

I’m tired of my skin resembling that of a Komodo dragon. My hands are so dry that my knuckles crack and bleed every time I use a keyboard. And, yes, that’s a lot. It’s not just my hands either. Seriously, if I passed a group of reanimated mummies me on the street, they’d be giving me sad like looks and moaning about how sorry they were for me. Now before you say anything about how I need to quit whining and man up, or get some lotion to match my pink tutu, let’s make sure everyone understands. I’m not talking about vanity here; I couldn’t give two flying ringtail lemurs about whether or not my skin was soft and supple. Honestly, I’d really just kind of like for people to see my hands and not immediately give me the, Oh, better stay away from the leper reaction.

So, yes, I’m done with winter. I am thusly extremely happy that it’s Super Bowl Sunday. Sure, I was already plenty happy that today is a national holiday focusing on beer, football, and the mass consumption of a variety of artery-clogging dip-based foods. Beyond that, though, it marks the last of fun winter activity days, which start with the holidays, hit the home stretch with National Weather Forecasting Rodent Day, and comes to a beer-sodden exclamation point* as the NFL shoots confetti out of cannons.

It’s time for spring, I tell you. And no, I don’t want to hear the weather forecast for the next few weeks.

Don’t make me put my fingers in my ears and start saying, “Nanananananananana…I can’t hear you.”

Pud’n

* Valentine’s Day? What’s this Valentine’s Day you speak of? Clearly, somebody made that up.

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