It never ceases to both amaze and amuse me how excited Canadians are to greet the first tentative appearance of spring by casting off their parkas, stowing their sock monkey hats in the darkest depths of the closet, and standing shivering but determined in front of their BBQs.  The whole thing is even more pronounced when the first nice week of the year happens to coincide nicely with March Break, and the end result is the ability to drive down the street in 7-degree weather and see small crowds of teenage girls wearing shorts and flip-flops, proving themselves to be tragically bereft of either a thermometer or a pair of pants. 

Given my distaste for winter and everything it entails, you’d think that I myself would be one of these people given to lustily hurling myself into the enticing bosom of spring, but I tend to view March and most of April with a generous helping of suspicion, since any good weather that occurs in either of those months tends to be little more than a tease engineered to plunge us all into depression when the grey clouds return and it inevitably starts snowing again.

Even so, I will admit to going for a run today in just a t-shirt and yoga pants, toodling along in quiet enjoyment of the sun on my arms and the feeling of something other than treadmill under my feet.  At a bend in the road, I passed a wee lad of about three years of age, wearing a spectacular cape and an equally spectacular Zorro-style superhero mask.  When he solemnly raised his hand in greeting and with a maturity that belied his youth inexplicably commented to me that it was a “nice day, eh!” I couldn’t help but smile and nod my head in agreement.  It was a very nice day indeed.