Spring Has Sprung

Spring has sprung…and so has my mattress. I forgot to flip it for a while. I forgot to flip my mattress for something like three years and now there’s a spring poking into me. Most action I’ve gotten in months. I have somehow forgotten to flip, flip myself and get flipped…for EONS.

I have flipped that mattress every which way AND up with the hope that I can get a few more years out of it. I have flipped that mattress as a physical representation of a manifestation I wish for my sex life…with the hope that I can get a few more years out of it.

Ya gotta start somewhere. Am I right?

And Spring is the perfect place to start. I consider Spring a place…a destination…where the sun shines, radiators don’t sound like mariachi bands, and the sidewalks are devoid of melted-snow dog-poop puddles. The township of Spring is inhabited by shiny, happy people and governed by Mr. Softee…oh how I glow when his truck comes. (Does that name make you boys as uncomfortable as I think it does? As I hope it does? Do you REALIZE girlies find it hi-larious?)

I can tell I’m in Spring when the store manager at Gristedes looks hot as hell to me. Nothing against Gristedes store managers, but 11 months out of the year, I'm feelin' nothin'.

I can tell I’m in Spring when March is flippin’ over. I have never ever had a good March. March sucks. I should just hibernate for March.

Which is what I did…at least sexually. My career? My career chose to hibernate on me. It forgot to tell me.

Are the two strangely and inextricably linked? A sexual-theatrical Gordian Knot?

Oy

Tiz Puzzlement