I've stopped wearing mittens.
Never mind that the temperature keeps dropping below freezing, or that we keep waking up to fresh snow. It's April, almost the middle of April, and at some point, I have to take a stand. If I give in and keep wearing all those heavy socks, those thick boots, that ski parka, well, if I admit defeat and give in to this cold weather, perhaps spring will never come.
I realize that the theory that the weather is affected by what I wear might sound a bit illogical. In fact, some have compared me to those crazy sport fans who scream and cheer at the television set and then later take credit for their team winning. I've been known to mock those sports fans.
But this is different. I know from experience that if I just put aside those winter clothes and act like it's spring, that the warm weather will come eventually. It happens every year. Sure, it means that my hands will be cold and chapped, and that I will have to run between buildings to keep warm on campus, but it's a sacrifice I am willing to make.
It's lucky I live on a deadend road without much traffic because when I am not wearing mittens, I do a pretty terrible job of scraping the frost off the car. I clear a small spot on the windshield and hope the defroster will finish the job before I make it out to one of the busier roads.
As I cruise along slowly, holding the steering wheel with one hand while warming the other by putting it under my leg, the sun hits the frost on the side window, making it sparkle before melting to drops of water. The woods and sky are muted and fuzzy, a blur of colour. For those first few minutes of my drive, I can look out and see the world with the eyes of a nineteenth century French painter.