Yesterday it was supposed to be in the mid-50s and raining. Instead, it snowed: big flakes, some the size of silver dollars but oddly enough, shaped like small falling postage stamps. Tomorrow it’s supposed to snow and sleet.
Usually, at this time of year in Kansas, we’re planting potatoes and complaining about how warm it is already, and if it’s like this now, what hell will summer bring? Unfortunately, we often end up all too right about summer (especially last summer).
But this late winter and early spring cusp is the cusp of surprise. Yesterday, for no apparent reason, I broke out in hives, and have since been steadying myself through recovery on lots of over-the-counter medication, coffee, tea tree oil (externally, not internally) and naps. The dog also surprised me by learning how to open cabinets with child-proof, but alas, not labaraner-proof, locks. Some plans have shifted but worked out regardless. I met friends for a last-minute lunch date, and the gyro meat was surprisingly good. And surprise of surprises, an airline offered cheap rates with direct flights when members of my family were ready to book trips to see Natalie graduate in St. Paul in April. I’m now watching a romantic comedy about the end of the world, and it’s surprisingly good (check out Seeking a Friend for the End of the World).
Surprises abound. From the sky, across the internet, through the screen and the skin. Because they’re surprises, there’s no way to prepare for them. There’s the snow behind, the possible snow ahead, and right now, from the TV set, a great rendition of “This Guy’s In Love With You.” The more I surrender to such surprises, and remember to both breathe steadily and take antihistamine every four hours, the more surprises more than suffice.