Today on my Facebook page, I asked, “If Spring Fever could be measured in degrees, what temperature would you be?”

What temperature would you be? I’m pretty sure I’m past 105 degrees, which in terms of the human body is deadly. That seems like gross exaggeration, but if Spring Fever were a real illness, I’d be right about there. I’m sick to death of cold weather.

You see, there are two things about living along Lake Michigan; one great, one not-so-great. First, we’re always 10 degree behind everybody else. Second, we’re always 10 degrees behind everybody else.

That’s a wonderful bonus in the middle of winter when the inland areas are hovering below zero and we’re in the more manageable single digits. It’s also a wonderful bonus when they’re sweltering at 90 degrees and we’ve got a nice, 80-degree breeze coming off the lake. It’s not a wonderful bonus when the inland areas have blooming flowers and people can run around without jackets while we’re staring at the buds through closed windows and donned in sweatshirts and woolly socks.

When the kids were young, dressing them at this time of year was a crazy guessing game. If we were sure to stay around home, it’d be long pants, long sleeves, and sweaters. If we were driving inland for anything it’d be short sleeves, shorts, and a take-along sweater for when we re-entered the “Cooling Zone”. But, our schedule has consistently been erratic, and we never carry through on the same plans with which we began the day with, so my poor kids were always either shivering or sweating. Sometimes I wondered if folks were sizing me up to discern whether or not I was an abusive or negligent mother.

Now I’m sitting at my desk, donned in fleece, denim, and woolly socks, here and there glancing wistfully out my window, and feeling my seasonal temperature rising. Before long, I’ll either die of longing or succumb to insanity and go outdoors sans fleece and woolly socks despite the forecast. Sometimes a girl’s just gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

Spring Fever has got me.

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