It has been a long and unpleasant winter this year. We’ve seen absurd highs, ridiculously late lows, winter storms with their own names (and, as far as I can tell from the Weather Channel, their own publicists), and wildly varying amounts of precipitation. We have been teased by warm, sunny days that were followed immediately by an icy return to vicious cold. Hopeful trees and longing flowers have dared to grow green, and have regretted it almost immediately. Robins have returned, only to curse the snow.
Every sign of spring thus far as been a cruel lie.
Every sign, that is, until you, oh first true sign of the waking of a new spring. Warm weather may be temporary, green growth may be fleeting and risky, but you are ever constant and perfect. The calendar may no longer accurately predict the seasons, but your sense of spring is unerring. Your blood stirs, your throat warms, your gimlet eye wanders, your engine revs, and the first true song of spring is heard by any and every woman who commits the brave act of Walking While Female down a city street.
In short, I have heard the First Wolf-Whistle of Spring, the First of the Hooting Wankers, and may now rest assured that our terrible winter has come to an end.
Hail, First Hooting Wanker! I salute you! I salute whatever accident of taste and efficiency led you to install that trick horn in your dirty white mid-90s POS-mobile, so that you didn’t even have to roll down your window to make your traditional sound!
I salute you, beloved, in the traditional way, and I hope that you will take it in the blooming, glowing spirit of Spring in which it is offered: