Signs of spring are appearing rapidly, though this morning’s temperature of seven degrees wasn’t one of them. Despite the cold, the sky started to lighten at six-fifteen. Though I haven’t spotted a robin yet, but they serenade my daily walks.
The surest sign of spring at this house are my gloves. They’re molting. Only two weeks ago, I congratulated myself keeping one pair of leather gloves for two years – a new record for me. The next Sunday, I wore them to church and afterwards discovered one of them went missing. Isn’t that just so February? I told myself. The weather warms up ten degrees and my gloves start shedding. With a silly little grin, I stuffed the remaining glove into one coat pocket and pulled a spare set of stretch gloves from the other.
I was surviving just fine until last night when I went to supper with some friends. The temperature was dropping fast when I left the restaurant, so I dug for the stretch gloves and found only one. Scowling, I traced my steps and checked under our table. No glove.
Outside, in the dark, I pulled on the two mismatched gloves and drove away. This morning’s search of the closet was futile, and my guess is the glove won’t show up when I check the car by the cold light of day. This is proof that spring is just around the corner, I keep telling myself, but my inner critic blasted my Pollyanna attitude. Gloves should molt in warm weather, not when it’s cold.
Unless I can find a complete set of gloves hiding somewhere in the closet, I’ll be wearing mismatched gloves and looking like a bag lady until spring arrives. I just hope it turns warm before I lose my hat and coat, too. It’s hard to be inconspicuous wearing a garbage bag.
