Technically, it's spring. OK, fine. Fabulous. We'll soon be springing forward our clocks, allowing for that extra hour of sunshine. The spring portion of the major league baseball season opens, what, a week from tomorrow?

(A fact that, surprsing no one, leaves me bouncing up and down like a child just thinking about it.)

All these technicalities, set dates, are all fine and good...but I'm waiting for the actual to arrive. And I'm actually getting more than a little impatient.

See, I've done my part. I have the spring (and summer and fall and until I get sick of them) sunglasses ready. I have the spring wardrobe ready, hanging in the closet, folded in the drawers. I have sneakers, open-toed shoes, sandals lined up and ready. I have my tickets for Fenway (and, come fall, Camden Yards) carefully set aside and the Red Sox calendar pinned to the corkboard behind this computer.

Game dates circled. Heh. Less than three weeks until the first one!

I spent a chunk of the weekend at my parents' house, relaxing and catching up with them outside of Massachusetts - which seems to be the exception to the norm as of late, as all three of us turn to the highway when we have more than a day of free time. Even they got into the spring swing of things. Shopping to make sure my mother actually buys herself the things she says she's been wanting (apparently I'm required to serve as the "bad" (read: good) influence in this area); discussion with my father about the tantalizingly close start to spring golf; the surprise black, white and pink track jacket and pants they'dbought me because they thought it would help my transition into running outside come cooperative weather.

We're all there. We're all waiting for it. We all have spring fever.

Only thing missing? Spring itself.

Any day now...