As I walked out of my room this morning I realized that I was not cold. Yes, of course, I saw my breath passing from my mouth, rising like steam from a bubbling and boiling kettle, but I felt warm, rebellious, and defiantly detached from the cold.
My first layer was a winter coat, which I unbuttoned and then took off. The next to go was my scarf, then my gloves, and then my sweater, which I tied around my waist like a fanny pack. Then the sleeves were rolled up. That was all until my baseball cap fell from my head as I wiped, just above my eyebrows, the sweat from my face.
I quickened my pace, hoping to cut through what remained of the winter air and in order to cause the breeze to pass on either side of me. I was wrong, and as my body temperature heated up I broke into a salty sweat.
It was then that the mayhem of the Martin’s Way marathon first greeted me: friends, faculty, staff, classmates, and the warm air. I knew, as the last layer of snow melted, that spring had emerged and that warm weather was here to stay—at least for a little while.