Like me, Woodstock falls for spring's head games every time.

At this time of year, my relationship with spring is a lot like my relationships with women.

Spring holds all of the power. I think about her constantly. She can't be bothered to think about me at all. And then one day (last Sunday to be specific), she shows up unannounced, and I am helpless to resist.

We hang out. She accompanies me on a walk on the Monon Trail, warming my skin with her mild March sun.

Later, she watches as I play fetch with the dog in the backyard. Both the dog and I are deeply grateful for her life-affirming presence. Afterward, the dog sleeps near the window, draped in her glow.

After sunset, I walk outdoors in my winter coat, having become acclimated to a world where darkness equals frigid air. "Take your coat off," spring whispers. "You won't need it anymore."

I take it off. We embrace. I am extraordinarily happy.

I wake up the next morning, relieved to see she's still there. I shower, eat breakfast and walk outside to greet her. But something isn't quite right. The blush in her cheek is gone. She looks antsy. She seems distant.

"You're not leaving, are you?" I ask.

She just sighs. A chill runs down my spine. I get into my car to drive to work.

I can't get anything done at the office. I need to know where she is. I log onto Weather.com and type in my ZIP code.

Spring would call this "stalkerish." It's what drives her away, she says. But I can't help it.

My heart drops when I see that the temperature has already dipped four degrees.

I click the button to see the 10-day forecast. I close my eyes. I hope against hope. When I open them again, I slump forward audibly as I read the phrase "wintry mix."

There's nothing mixed about my feelings. They are one big clump of misery.

I try to hide my tears from the person in the opposite cube. I feign sneezing. I run to the restroom, grip the edges of the sink and hang my head and sob. A colleague walks in. "You all right, Matt?"

"I'm fine," I say. "I'm fine."

But the mirror tells a different story.