I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m gonna need Monday to recover from the weekend.
It’s spring, after all, in a land where summer – our reward for having lived through another winter bent on destroying us – lasts less than four months. Every shift toward our full-blown and well-deserved compensation is precious.
You want to be awake for all of it.
The moments toward summer-in-earnest can be measured via clothing. And why not? Ask anyone from a northern clime about the moment they no longer have to dress with maximum skin coverage paramount, about the sense of ceremony as the winter boots are retired to the basement, the solemnity attached to the ice scraper’s removal from the car.
And now, well into spring, the raincoats are nearing the end of their usefulness, sandals are being worn with abandon, and the windows have been thrown wide.
Yesterday the temperatures in Minnesota inched toward 80 degrees, and I did something I haven’t done in over 200 days.
I took my pants off.
I wore shorts.
That’s right: I was epantsipated.
Brothers and sisters, throw off the shackles of long pants! Liberate yourself from your trouser-ed prison! Free those pale shins and let your knees breathe! Join me in the joys of unfettered stems!
Epantsipation, baby. Heady stuff.
Being a Nighthawk
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