March: In like a lion, out like ...

March: The month of my impatience. The spring of my discontent.

Like September, I have mixed feelings about March.

On the one hand, I’m smiling as I look off our balcony and see the trees beginning to bud, knowing that the buildings we have been able to see so clearly for the past few months will soon be hidden behind multiple lush, green foliage Afros. Those otherwise troublesome Bradford Pear trees, along with other trees and bushes, have already come out in blazes of colorful glory.

It’s ostensibly a month of promise, of optimism, of new life anticipated. ’Tis a blustery time in which we’re all supposed to be running around flying kites outside (or gathering our full skirts around us whenever we take a stroll). It’s a time of doing March Madness brackets … and, in the case of this year and last, Oscars brackets. This particular March provided us the long-awaited opportunity to see comedian Chris Rock discussing that Will Smith Oscars slap from last year on his “Selective Outrage” standup special. (Chris, you and I have something in common. I, too, come up with clever comebacks eons later.)

Spring looms strong. The daffodils, they too are a-bloomin’. While some of us do brackets, others of us are poised to “do the closet,” or dig the warm-weather clothes out and nudge the winter clothes toward storage. Even those of us who are way past prom age and have no high-school-age children might peep to see what the young ’uns are planning to wear to that most important dance. We perk up at the thought of hitting a St. Patrick’s Day parade or two. We may even flash some St. Patrick’s Day green on Friday as we wonder if this year, just maybe, we can carry off pastel attire come Easter.

The irritation of today’s “springing forward,” and therefore losing an hour of sleep due to the onset of daylight saving time, is a minor one (especially among those of us who are just bad sleepers) in light of the anticipation of such activities as going on walks, hitting the garden center, heading to some fabulous Spring Break destination.

It’s part of that whole “lookingforward-to-the-idea-of-summer” thing I’ve written about before.

But then the thing that makes this season so frustrating inevitably raises its head. A warm day or two is followed by what seems to be a bajillion wintry ones; a sunny day or two precedes bajillion stormy ones. (Sometimes March comes in and goes out like a lion.) Those spring clothes have to stay in the closet a bit longer, or be mixed unattractively with the winter ones. “Some sure signs that spring is well on its way in Arkansas: You’re wearing a turtleneck and knee-high boots

one day (or minute) and floral-print capris and flip-flops the next,” as I wrote in a 2001 Talk column about spring. “Your flowers bloomed, then were deep-sixed by frost. … You’re dreading the return of the birds, who seem to just love your car.” As does that nasty, oppressive yellow-green pollen that’s on its way and which probably brings in the biggest chunk of the year’s take for car wash owners.

And March is the month during which the task of doing those taxes is staring us hard in the face if we haven’t already done them. I almost miss those 1040EZ days.

What is one to do during this month of so much promise and so much bleakness? And what if March just proves a cold, rainy, “seasonal-affective-disorder-continued” mess? What about April? And May?

Guess it’s all about making a conscious decision. Like that decision to love, no matter what. That decision not to be embarrassed, even if your skirt blows up in the March wind. That decision to refrain from social-media fighting.

It’s about making a late New Year’s resolution to focus on March’s promise and grab by the hand the optimism it offers … realistic optimism. It’s about keeping in mind that although it may take spring a while to fully arrive on the scene — literally and figuratively — we can make our own fun while getting ready for it and while navigating through any groan-worthy aspects of it.

We can govern ourselves accordingly all the time, all months, all seasons. Call it Selective Outlook. So, here’s to March, in which hope and clever comebacks spring eternal.