When I was young, one of the rules I had to adhere to involved my clothing choices, specifically during the spring. I was not allowed to wear shorts and short sleeves outside until the snow had all melted away.
Being the patient child that I was, I'd often spend some of my warmest spring days with a snow shovel, digging into the larger snow hills, and either sprinkling the shovel-fulls of snow around the yard, or dumping it into the puddles that had formed on either side of our driveway. It was always a race to have short sleeve privileges again.
I'm 22 now, and have been picking out my own outfits for at least four years now, but I notice that this practice isn't completely dead in me quite yet. As I walked from my car to class this morning, I found myself kicking at larger snow banks, as if I was still 16 years old (give or take 10 years), waiting to put on short sleeves for another spring.
And although this really has nothing to do with the story, I also still can't resist trying to slide on ice patches, or stepping on what looks like thin ice, in what in reality is nothing but a stupid attempt to soak my foot with ice-cold puddle water. I guess old habits really do die hard.
*First baseball game of the season tonight, at the dome... Go Auggies!*
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