A chilling diagnosis

I’m not a doctor, but I play one in a column.

 

This means I get to identify new diseases and diagnose them accordingly. I possess no advanced degrees, have no medical training, and become squeamish at the sight of needles, but because I’m playing a doctor, I get to make all the rules. Unsurprisingly, the rules give me near-unlimited power. It’s my own special brand of B.S., and in this context, that definitely doesn’t mean Bachelor of Science.

 

With this me-given ability to define various illnesses, there’s an epidemic afoot which warrants investigation. I highlight this scourge purely as a public service, because I’m an incredibly caring and empathic person. I’m also a generous tipper and have calves like a Roman foot soldier, but those traits are quite unrelated.

 

You’ve witnesses this disease before, but until now it never had a name. I hereby call it – drum roll, please – Premature Springjaculation. That may just be dumb enough to necessitate future tweaking.

 

Here’s how it works: You’ve spent a long few months indoors, huddled over a space heater in your Doritos-stained Snuggie, vainly attempting to warm your winter-chilled bones. Sometime in mid-March, a relatively warm day sneaks through the cracks – one of those mid-50’s surprises that shocks you into believing spring may indeed be imminent. Excited, you cast aside your winter coat in favor of a light hoodie and take a walk around the neighborhood, doing various spring-like things, like patting neighbors’ dogs, and not drinking before noon. It’s glorious. You feel renewed, ready to take on life with a fresh heart.

Only there’s a catch. You become so accustomed to wearing your spring duds that you just keep on wearing them, even though the very next day it’s once again cold enough to freeze Junior Mints to your forehead. Through several more weeks you suffer this way, ’cause you’ve cast aside your mittens and ski mask, and dammit, you’re not going back.

 

Congratulations. You have prematurely springjaculated.

 

Don’t feel bad; we all do it. I do it every year, even though by now I should know better. About a month ago, I had a random day off in the middle of the week – lately, that’s about as rare as seeing a sub-Saharan tiger hiding a four-leaf clover in Bigfoot’s ass – and it just so happened to be the first truly nice day of the year. I tossed my winter coat into a corner, flipped it the bird, and felt like I weighed about fifty pounds as I walk-skipped to a friend’s house to do a little dog-sitting. Every spring feels like the first, and I was ready to embrace this one with the fervor of a passionate lover, minus the kissing, because trying to kiss weather is stupid.

 

The very next day, Mother Earth once again shoved me forcibly into her frigid icebox, needling my disappointment with her merciless cackle. Or maybe that was a dream about my Aunt Bertha. Either way, someone was being a real jerk. And I was cold.

 

Northeasterners like to think of themselves as a tough breed, stoically braving the chill while ignoring the fact that their fingers are slowly turning the deep purple hue of a Valentine’s Day hickey. For the most part, I guess we are kind of tough, what with our propensity for chopping wood and shooting things. But part of this is a front. It has to be, because every year around this time, everyone’s a little too happy. There’s happy and then there’s certifiably happy, akin to the nervous joy someone feels when they’ve narrowly escaped a brush with bad news. It’s like being in a doctor’s office, and the doctor says, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cheesebelly, but you have an advanced case of bubonic plague. You’ll be dead within the hour. Whoops, wrong chart! You’re dehydrated. Here’s some Gatorade.” That’s spring relief in a nutshell: The feeling that you’ve gotten away with something.

 

It doesn’t matter how acclimated we think we’ve become, how thick our calluses or ruddy our wind-blasted complexions – we yearn for that relief. We pine for it. And we fool ourselves into thinking the moment of our deliverance has arrived.

 

There’s a certain age group that seems more susceptible to this false hope than others. Those of us with a healthy number of winters under our belt suck up our disappointment and pick our coats up off the floor; those still young enough to have their wardrobe selected by their parents are bundled up and cozy because they lack a choice. Between 14 and 19, though, there exists a contingent that insists on wearing basketball shorts even in weather that could kill a mountain yeti. I see them all the time on my commute to work in the mornings: Shoulders slumped under the weight of heavy backpacks, hair making visible the wind of a dying season, and the heaviest garments on their bodies are faded Iron Maiden T-shirts with holes in the armpits. They come out of the woodwork as early as February, these people. Their insistence on walking to school without protection is so brazen it’s almost impressive. It’s like stepping into a batting cage and trusting a Jewish yarmulke to protect your head.

 

High schoolers. They’re the most egregious springjaculators of all. That seems nicer than calling them dufuses.

 

Fortunately, Dr. Jeff has proclaimed this to be a true-blue affliction, and like many afflictions, this one has a treatment: A coat that weighs more than a fire ant.

 

A coat’s side effects may include warmth, contentment, and lack of uncontrollable shivering. Women who are pregnant or nursing should definitely not consult their doctor before wearing a coat. Do drink alcohol while wearing a coat, as this masks the effects of thinning blood. If warmth lasts for more than four hours, do not consult a health professional, as that would be extremely stupid. If warmth does not occur immediately, wear some mittens. Those help, too.

 

So enjoy the early spring again. Ask your doctor if a jacket is right for you.