In this moment, as the glare of the uncannily bright morning sun is playing games on my computer screen, I am trying desperately to be glad it is spring. Unfortunately, this is proving harder than I could have ever imagined.

Despite the chirping birds and chittering squirrels and Frisbee-wielding freshman, I cannot help but feel that winter never got a chance to show us its stuff.

Now please don’t misunderstand me. I hate winter. I hate it more than I hate when the Rott runs out of those chocolate peanut butter cookies just before I can get my hands on one. Let me go a step further. I’d go as far as to say that my contempt for winter is greater than the antipathy I feel when people post embarrassing song lyrics as their Facebook statuses and twenty people like it.

I mean it: I really detest winter. I don’t do snowmen, I don’t do snowball fights and I definitely don’t do Alvin and the Chipmunks singing “Christmas Don’t Be Late” on my radio for two months straight.

In fact, the only thing I really truly love about winter is that every single year after a handful of false alarms, when you honestly believe that you might not make it through another day, it goes away.

You know the story as well as I do. Every year, winter slithers his way into our lives, chases us indoors and casts mayhem about like it’s his job. We have nothing to look forward to for months except the warmth of our beds and our Ramen noodles.

Finally, however, that day comes when spring rides through town donning his golden armor and calls out, “Winter, you tyrant! Release your hold on these people and fight me like a man!” And all the men, women and children emerge from their hiding and come out to gaze admiringly at the spectacle. And then, my friends, spring runs that coward out of our lives for one more year.

Today, I lament the distortion of this story. I miss looking around and having that sense that everyone is waking up and stretching for the first time in months. The warm gentle breeze doesn’t carry that familiar scent of a promise fulfilled.

In the end, I am just not prepared to welcome spring as a long-awaited hero. Instead, he looks to me like that high school football star who thought he could stick around town forever and continue to be praised even though he hasn’t done anything with himself for twenty years.

I want to join in with my friends as they gush about the five-day weather forecast for the twentieth time this year. I want to, but today I must accept the truth: winter is the villain I love to hate, and while I thought I couldn’t live with him, maybe I can’t live without him either.