If I was forced to spend and entire weekend watching sports, I would choose to watch basketball, since it’s one of the more fast-moving sports and I mostly understand the rules. Luckily, no one is forcing me to do any such thing, so I am largely ignoring the televised March Madness basketball on TV (unlike my husband, who is glued to the set) and having my own personal version of March Madness instead.
My version has nothing to do with basketball, and everything to do with the arrival of spring. By mid-March, I am so ready for spring that I can hardly stand it. I love seeing the daffodils finally blooming in my back yard, and the first little buds beginning to appear on trees and bushes. And when we get the very first truly warm day, I am convinced that the cold weather is finally over and that summer is just around the corner. And that’s where the “madness” comes in.
Because I never learn. Each year, I get hopeful all over again. I think our yard will always look as nice as it does in early spring, before the weeds/drought/grubworms, of summer have had a chance to do their dirty work. I believe this will be the year that my allergy medication will finally work and the tree pollen won’t give me a sore throat, runny nose and itchy eyes. I’m sure that the mosquitos and all the other nasty bugs won’t be so bad this year, and that this will be the year the whiteflies don’t attack my tomato plants. Worst of all, I dare to hope that this is the year I’ll both fit into and look good in my summer shorts. Even though I never do.
I’ve heard that the definition of insanity is doing the same things over and over again and expecting different results. If that’s true, then the term March Madness really does apply to my yearly reaction to the beginning of spring. I tend to have the exact same hopes each year, even though they always prove to be far too optimistic. The frantic housecleaning (because of course my house won’t just get dirty all over again), the optimistic plans to eat all meals this summer on our patio (because it never gets hot, humid and buggy in St. Louis in the summer, right?) and the careful unpacking of summer clothes that haven’t fit properly in years are all part of my annual spring tradition, and probably always will be.
It’s just my own personal March Madness. And I’m pretty sure I’d be better off watching the basketball tournaments.