March 2, 2006
Itching for spring to start
If I put on another sweater, I think I'm gonna scream.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

We are sliding into the homestretch of the long funereal winter. Well, hallelujah, pass me another hot dog.

I am lethargic, and I don't return phone calls. Long winter naps, I celebrate you.

No amount of lotion keeps my dry skin moist; I have worn every sweater I own six or seven times; my fingernails are all broken and doing laundry helps pass tedious evenings (I consider myself especially lucky if I need spot-remover first).

My high school friend, who lives in L.A., never visits Indy between November and March. Like I don't "do" tanning beds, she doesn't "do" winter. I definitely never return her stupid calls.

Love Interest was born under deliriously sunny skies; what astounds him most about Indy is how long the line to Castleton Square Mall is every weekend. "What do people do here in the winter?" he asks.

I smile and suggest, "Beer run?"

He and I ping pong "what do you want to do" back and forth for a couple of hours, then end up cuddled under blankets on the couch.

The other day, in one linear breath, he questioned, "Jill, do you realize we are watching music?" as Comcast updated the liner notes of Ray Charles' biography.

The melancholy in Love Interest's tone startled me to attention. Calmly, I patted his leg, saying, "There, there; want me to bake another batch of chocolate chip cookies?"

I heard a bird chirping outside the window: Mother Nature . . . is that you? We're here, trapped inside the house! Call for backup!

I rescued a bug on the countertop; too cold outside, I moved him to the floor.

This can't continue.

I read by the fire. Visions of "Little House on the Prairie" pester the sentences. Thoughts about Jonathan Safran Foer's new book come out, but inside I'm beating down Nelly Oleson's door, demanding the antidote for Cabin Fever.

Love Interest asks, "Want to go to the gym?"

"Save yourself," I mutter.

I left his house the other morning (I accidentally fell asleep on the couch, dad) and drove to work.

This effort requires 1) Being awake long before the sun comes out, if the sun comes out, and 2) Catching the I-69/82nd Street split.

Cars tread the trodden trail for, like, 50 minutes. Before I hit I-465, I realized I hadn't properly lotioned my back.

The itching was uncontrollable -- winter, you are wearing me down. Frantically I unlatched my seatbelt (I had to!) and scratched, fingers twisted beneath my sweater worn for the eighth time.

We're pulling for you, spring . . . you can do it!