Spring of Dreams

Morning arose.

The sun, in all of it’s curiosity, peaked bashfully through the fading grey clouds.  It rained yesterday.  Wet rain.  Too obvious?  I don’t think so.  With the ozone layer being what it is?  It coulda been raining meteorites.  It's also Saturday.  Saturday morning.  (don’t interrupt me).  A common occurrence for once Friday has ended.  You'd never have guessed, right?  Right!  

That crisp, icy feeling filled the new dawn air, it's silence broken with sounds of, "Chirp, chirp!"  

That's bird language for, "Wake ya lazy human ass up!"  

I think?  

It's been a while since I've conversed with birds, so forgive me if that should've been translated to, "We've come to inform you peasants that Spring is on it's way!"

A-hem!  

Now that the scene is set?

What is your Spring resolution?  Best you hurry, Spring waits for no-one!  Sure, suuuure, unlike time, you'll get another Spring but let's pretend for a minute.  Pretend with ya Rambler, come onnnnnn.  I know you want to.  Pretend that this yourr Spring!  The Spring in which you sprout new dreams and water them like the dirty-nailed gardener I know you can be and then watch them bloom and flourish into beautiful, radiant sunflowers!  That's my personal favourite.  Something to do with my past flower-child life.  Peace!  You can substitute that with roses or whatever flower you like best.  But you can't use lettuce or bean sprouts, okay?  I’m being kind enough to allow substitutions here, but I’m in no way granting any persons permission to ruin my inspirational speech!  We’re certainly not trying to inspire leaf-eating insects.  So since I know not a soul that’s motivated by a fully grown vegetable, I would recommend that you stick to the script.  

See how compromising I am?  -_-  Uhmmmmmmm-M.

As for my resolution?  I'm about to pour all of my energy into my second book, The Switch. When I say all?  I mean what's left after school, kids, work, sports, household chores and gear changing!  I dunno about you, but mannnnnnnnn, could I use a break from driving! Have we not yet reached that part of the future where cars ARE our drivers?  Like where you get in, you don't even have to talk!  They're mind-reading cars so you just get in and they take you to where you're thinking about going.  Not heaven, though.  Let’s be realistic.  Hell?  Hmmmmmmmmmmmm…..that’s possible.  Think about driving straight to parliament.  That’ll get you there in a hurry.  Just?  I'm not confident that anyone will reach their jobs, though?  That's a cause for concern.  Not for me.  For your boss.  

I've been driving now for half my life.  It-it's just no longer fun.  Kinda like when my gynae told me, "You're not 21 anymore."

>_<!  That wasn't fun either.  He meant that in the nicest possible way.  I'm sure.  I know because he was smiling when he said it.  Snide mutha that he is!  He can't sue me for calling him names.  I didn't mention his.  I didn’t go to any gynae called Snide or Mutha.  And my English teacher always made sure to tell us that adjectives were an integral part of speech as well as writing.  Hey, all's fair in...in gynae and patient name calling!  He called me old!  He started!

My second reaction, after my lips pursed?  Was to blurt out, "I beg to differ!" in a deep British accent and then claim that the mere mention of my age was the cause for it.  If he asked.  I was even tryna come up with a syndrome name for it.  I failed.  I'm nowhere near originating from anywhere else but South Africa, but "I beg to differ" sounds so much more sophisticated when said that way.  Sadly though, reality hit and I quickly remembered that he hadn't examined me yet.

Now if you happen to be vagina-based?  Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahahahahahaha!!  That was bad.  However true, that was just, baddd.  Lemme try it again.  If you happen to be female?  Thaaaat's better.  Female.  Gender-uhmmm?-itically correct.  Yes!  If you're female, then ofcourse?  You are keenly aware that that part of the visit is uncomfortable enough even without having riled the gynae up with senseless arguments about how old you are versus how old you feel.

So, like any cautious vagina-based person would do?  I saved myself from probable trauma (should I have decided to execute the said argument) and guess what?  He then promptly, the short cystic diagnosing bastard, went on ahead and diagnosed me with PCOS and sent me on my merry way!  I feel like I was short-changed, somehow.  I held out on Plan British Accent whereas he held nothing back with the smile and-and the, you’re old now, and then picking on my ovaries.  As if reminding me that I'm no spring chicken, wasn't bad enough?!?  I'm not angry.  Plussss?!?  Plus!!!  You’re listening?  This wasn't even recently!  So he was calling me old when I was younger!  Than this!  He deserves me calling him anything I want to.  But as I said, I'm not angry.  Scarred maybe, but angry…no!

I'm wayyyy too happy to be anything but happy! 

This is my Spring!