Spring is in the air! I know this to be true because all the Bambi kamikazes have eaten my azalea bushes to a nub and have left piles of poop in their destructive wake. Was I really the kid who bawled my eyes out when Bambi’s mother was killed in the movie? Ok easy readers, I’m not going all gangsta on the wild life. I know that the poor dears, were here before the greedy national builder of subdivisions took away their homes. But still, they really TICK me off. Don’t even get me started on the blood sucking, disease riddled calling cards that they leave behind.
I mean what’s the point of moving to Green Acres, if you’re not going to fully embrace Mother Nature. And that’s just what I did. I spent buckets of money on landscaping only to learn that I unwittingly created a veritable smorgasbord… meals on wheels… for the vermin deer. I can picture them flipping me off with their cute white tails…mocking me with their limpid brown eyes. Really, why bother eating in your natural habitat when my garden serves up a four star tasting menu.
But I’m a true glutton for punishment. Every year, I swear that I will not succumb to the flower fairy’s sweet whisperings to plant, plant, plant. But Like clockwork, right after the Vernal Equinox, I find myself eagerly awaiting the Gardner’s Eden catalog to arrive. Who needs Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar or even the Stop N Shop circular when there are heirloom seeds to sow?
In addition to the gardening bug, I have spring fever something fierce. I can’t quell my irrational desire to convene with nature. Maybe it’s all those pheromones swirling in the air, comingling with the dust mites, pollen spores and hot flashes, that’s making my head sweat and spin.
But my spinning head envisions spinning wheels. I’m ready to rub a little road kill in my hair and hop on my bike, that would be bicycle, not Harley, and head for the hills. I may not get up the hills but I’m hell bent on heading for them. I love zipping along the country roads, wind whipping gnats into my mouth that’s wide open, and gasping in buckets of air.
This year I’ll be heading out with just a wee bit of hesitation in my saddle. Remembering that last years’ spring fever didn’t turn out so hot for me. It all started with replacing my trusty pedals with special clips that you step into with special bike shoes. The bike geeks at the bike shop talked me into them. Only amateurs (or the truly uncoordinated such as myself) would dane to ride in SNEAKERS. As if stooping to outfitting myself in neon spandex wasn’t bad enough. I had to go full throttle and go for the clip ins. Clipping in was no problem….but clipping out proved to be my downfall, figuratively, truly and completely. So no sooner than you can say Tour de France, I was saying fractured wrist.
No, I wasn’t going fast; no, I didn’t swerve to avoid a grazing deer. I was riding with the Big Irishman, aka hubby, light of my life, ball and chain, who was dead set against me getting the clip ins. As much as it pains me to admit it, I was making a simple turn. No, the Big Irishman did not cut me off but somehow he put a Celtic curse on me. How else to explain me toppling over for no apparent reason? And seeing the, I told you so look on his face, really put me over the edge. I cussed him out something nasty. I mean, jeez, someone had to pay for my idiotic decision to go for the clip ins.
You should have seen me with a garbage bag tied over my purple cast, merrily mulching my garden. Some folks just never learn.