“There’s no Jeopardy on tonight because of March Madness,” said my disappointed husband, much more a fan of the quiz show than of the N.C.A.A. That was on Thursday.
Meanwhile, I’ve been well aware of March Madness, and not just because I grew up with four older brothers. This year, the kind on TV is just a backdrop, though, to the kind simmering in me. My version might more accurately be described as Mad at March. Is April the cruelest month? No way.
Yesterday in the wind, as I ran down the road, I saw my husband (home by surprise for his own run, in between churches) emerge from a trail. “Good enough for him, good enough for me,” I reasoned. Then I discovered that it was unrelenting ice, all the gradual way down— the kind of trail that made you find footing on the side in the snow, or not at all. “Could he have come up this?” I had my doubts, but then I saw what looked like pretty fresh sneaker tracks. Practically walking most of it, I stepped in plenty of surprise puddles that soaked my feet right through. It was splendid.
He’d done one of those Lenten Quiet Days; I have never attended one, but I’m guessing there are meditations relevant to this particular time of the Christian calendar, the kind that encourage soul-searching, recognition of our sins, and an acceptance of leanness, if not outright hunger. I’m not sure if disgruntlement is considered, but there’s a good chance.
Yesterday, if I’d been in any kind of circle where anybody wanted to know what was on my mind, I wouldn’t have hesitated to lay most of my wretchedness right on the inhospitable lap of March, who would in fact be growling.
OK, sure; we know that spring doesn’t arrive right when the calendar says it does, that winter likes to keep its grip in New England, but this is getting ridiculous. I bet I’m not the only one who has felt a certain chill pervade my being. And in my case it’s also a little surprising, since I’ve had more free time — usually an uplifting commodity– to go traipsing around outdoors. I wouldn’t call it gallivanting, though; hat and gloves have remained imperative.
Today’s a bit better, I’ll give you that. But wasn’t the sun out before and now it’s not?
In January or February, it’s not this way at all. Especially on those sunny days after a snow, everything looks practically luscious.
But like a theatrical production that drags on too long after Intermission and expects too much of an audience, this season really needs to let the curtain fall.
Encores, like second and third helpings, can be nice. Except when, as my grandmother used to coach us to say, the polite response is, “I’ve had sufficient.”