March is the month we Wisconsinites dream about.
This is when euphoria hits us in the face in the form of sunshine for the first time in a while.
A low grade panic will soon follow.
It is nothing to get frazzled about folks, as it is only March.
The bright ball of fire in the sky that is now giving off a bit of warmth is working its way through our window panes from new angles. Here in the black hole just outside Harmony Grove, the glass is covered with spots and a film both inside and out.
But the rays are now strong enough to penetrate the worst cases such as this and shine a spot light on all that went unseen until now.
This year is not my fault.
You see, I did not wait until Spring to start training.
I have been in training all winter long.
That is the reason I had no time to take notice of spiders building sky scrapers and complicated railroads systems under my nose and across my ceiling.
I was not able to watch the historical dustbowl that came through. I thought we were supposed to be rotating our crops, for Christ's sake. And how could I have known all those little critters were tucked away in the woodwork and that the sun would make them come to and start waddling around here like they own the place?
"What's that Louisa?"
Hang on, my sister is talking.
She says I should have known because history repeats itself and I bitch about this every single year.
"Louisa, just because I ask a question, doesn't mean I am talking to you!"
I hope I find the time to show those bugs who is boss around here.
It all started when I hired a guy for strength training last fall.
I felt sorry for the dude.
His name is Hunter and he goes by Puppy Dog. He is an old geezer who should be retired from everything on earth, but he is still very passionate about squats and Dingo Dyno Stix. He loves to work biceps, abs and glutes. That is why he has me bend at the knees and slide a sling underneath his belly. Then when he is ready and not until he gives the signal, I am to pull him up to a standing position.
Whenever he beckons.
Hunter is not tiny.
They say his bark is bigger than his bite.
I say there is no bite bigger than his bark.
There are times that he bellows for me to drop and squat, even if I am up on a ladder painting my cupboards or stuck inside one, so that he can do a quick spin around and plunk back down in the exact same spot.
Lately he has been setting his alarm clock for middle of the night readjustments. Just to be able to squeeze in a couple extra squats before the sun comes up. Even my sweet Sven has been getting a nice work out. He believes he is going to kick butt this summer on the golf course and blow those coupon boys away.
Not only did I hire Hunter, I hired a cardio team.
They would be Grandma Meow Moses and Baby Face Tuna.
The two work together but separately.
Grandma is one of the oldest felines alive in the entire universe, yet with what little time she has left, she is devoted to her cause. Her cause is to keep me running up and down flights of stairs. This way I can take care of her every need down there in her assisted living apartment and get my heart pumping. She prefers that I carry her in my arms to the land where sunshine and milk are plentiful.
Which is upstairs.
She then basically naps until her arch enemy and cardio partner in crime, is due for his shift.
That is when she blows that whistle of hers and demands to be taken back to her heated bed downstairs.
Tuna, the residential thug who calls himself, The Director, makes sure that Sven and I are continuously in motion.
He strongly believes in the importance of blood flowing in and out of valves, veins and arteries.
That is why he hangs from the outside screen and stares at us with those googly eyes of his so that we get up to let him in, even if one of us is in the middle of a Hunter squat and Grandma Meow is sound asleep and must be whisked away and taken to safety.
If you ask me, it is nothing more than a power trip.
My sweet Sven and I thank the lord that, The Director, naps every afternoon.
When awake he is at the kitchen door heading in or heading out.
Or else he is demanding that we stand up and throw treats.
Luckily we have a bag of kryptonite in the skinny drawer in the kitchen in case we feel it is a necessary diversion.
But this of course still gets us up and moving, so it is a win, win for Tuna, since he seems to enjoy the only thing that brings him down.
I am not even allowed the privacy of doing my duty if he sticks a paw underneath the bathroom door and starts grabbing at the air.
This means that he means business.
I am to play a footsie game with him that involves a Q-tip.
Tuna claims that it is good for my dexterity.
Somebody always gets hurt.
And it is never, The Director.
It may have been a mistake to hire this lot.
But as annoying as they are, I doubt there will ever be another winter quite like this one where such joy comes out of a few blessed moments in the evening, there in front of a crackling fire, glass of wine in hand, feet up, my sweet Sven on the other couch, a stupid movie playing, and this particular crew of trainers, all in their happy places.
Until somebody blows a whistle, that is.
I bet I will never come out of hibernation feeling this buff again.
All jokes aside, prayers for our Ukrainian brothers and sisters.