When Daylight Savings Time kicked into effect on Sunday, some people turned their clocks forward by an hour and grumbled about a lost hour of sleep. Others looked out their windows at sheets of rain coming down, wondering what was so good about this so-called spring concept, anyway.

Me? I turned the clocks forward and then hopped onto a plane. Destination: Spring.

If you ignore the fact that Southwest Airlines is seemingly trying to ruin my attempts at fleeing winter for a week (my luggage has yet to arrive and the airline has pushed me to tears thrice now, but that’s all a story for another time – MORAL: DON’T FLY SOUTHWEST), you’d think that I’ve happened onto something rather grand. Because while there have been headaches and tears, there’s also been this:

After more years than I’d care to admit, “next year” finally arrived. Sunshine, palm trees, the crack of the bat and the sound of balls slamming into the pockets of gloves. Mike Lowell got his first start, I had my first chance to cheer on Mike Cameron (about whom I am, as I put it today, “giddy excited”) and I grinned when a little kid sitting in front of me asked if this was my first time seeing the Red Sox.

“Nope, definitely not,” I replied, hilariously laughing to myself. “But my first time seeing them this year.”

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