Confession: I Hate Spring in Philadelphia

Photo illustration | Alyse Moyer. Photos | background, M. Fischetti for Visit Philadelphia; Peep, PhotosJC / Shutterstock.com, person in jacket, leedsn/ Shutterstock.com

I woke up on Friday morning with a distinct, creeping sense of dread. The kind of dread that makes you afraid to open your eyes, that brings you to the bargaining table with gods long forgotten.

Some of this could be attributed to the dog sleeping on my head. It was the smelly dog, and I had to decide whether to wash my hair or Febreze it like a dodgy futon before heading into work. I knew what I would choose, and it wasn’t a choice that inspired much hope for the day or the decade.

But, smelly dogs aside, it was also the first day of spring.

I know how I’m supposed to feel about spring. 

It is, likely, the way that you feel. Excited about the milder weather, looking forward to the budding trees, grateful that winter is officially — if not practically — in the rearview and beach days are on the horizon. We have seemingly all agreed that this is a time to cuddle baby chicks while sniffing daffodils on the way to picnics.

I want to join you. Truly. But for as rough as winter in Philadelphia can be, I have grown to dislike spring — especially these frigid first few weeks — even more than the months leading up to it.

Winter is, if nothing else, upfront about the way things are going to progress: cold, dark, lonely, drunk in sweatpants. I have a lot of cable and very little pride — I can make this work for a couple months. If not, at least I have plenty of seasonally depressed company to cosign my blanket cave.

If you’re having a bad day in January, you haven’t necessarily failed — everyone is having all of the bad days in January. If you’re having a bad day in April? You’re in a party-of-one rut that’s not in line with the prescribed cheeriness of the season.

Because when spring shows up, it immediately acts like it’s doing you a favor, like its mere existence is cause for celebration. This, despite the fact that Philly’s spring is just barely pleasant. Your garden is going to hold a grudge about that sneak-attack snowfall. It will be weeks before you can open the windows with any real confidence. Your smug-ass parka hasn’t bothered to vacate the coat rack, has it?

No, spring is nothing more than Philadelphia’s wilting bouquet of Pathmark carnations, an insufficient offering after months of emotional abuse. You can’t really be blamed for appreciating it, but if you were dating this city, your sister would be staging an intervention.

Thankfully, spring took a cue from winter and was kind enough to reboot a pagan holiday and distract us from the cold rain.

Easter is kind of like Christmas, except instead of boxes full of presents you get plastic eggs full of jellybeans. It’s almost like Halloween, but this time only the creepy man-bunny wears a costume. Sort of like Thanksgiving, except it’s on a Sunday so there’s no long weekend. Think Fourth of July, but with less fireworks and more crucifixion.

What has spring done for you lately? That’s right, Philadelphia — not much. Grab your Peeps and join me on the Dark Side.

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