As I write this, my head is pounding and I could be the eighth dwarf…just call me Snotty or Drippy.

Oh, boy. Spring allergies. I love this time of year, with things budding and blooming…

But I also hate this time of year. There are reasons.

First of all, pollen.

That yellow junk is everywhere, and I think it’s coated my brain.

I have a fairly constant headache, my eyes water and I sneeze every time I go outside.

Heck, I sneeze every time I look out the window. Ugh.

Then there’s the whole flower thing.

Now, mind you, I have two black thumbs. I have killed more plants than I can count.

Yet every spring, I have the uncontrollable desire to plant stuff.

I was at Wal-Mart the other day, and I found my buggy careening – yes, careening – toward the garden section of the store.

I perused for about an hour, debating whether I should, again, spend money for plants I feel sure I will wind up killing. Because, you know, black thumbs.

Why, oh why? I love blooming stuff. I can’t help it. It’s in my genes.

My mother could plant a stick and it would grow and bloom.

I plant flowers and they turn into sticks. Geez. So unfair.

Then there’s the whole white sandal thing.

Easter has passed, so it’s OK for me to wear white sandals now, without invoking the wrath of Southern mothers everywhere.

But the search for the perfect white sandal? Oy. It’s exhausting.

It has to be carefree, cute and say, “Spring has sprung, y’all.” But at the same time, I require support, without it looking, well, orthopedic.

I’m tired just thinking about it.

Then there’s the panic. Oh, the panic. When I pull out my clothes from last spring and summer, and find that they have shrunk. Seriously… how does this happen? So I panic, and start running in place, and doing crunches. Pretty soon, however, I’m back to my usual crunches – Cap’n and Nestle.

Last of all, there’s the whole urge to spring clean. I grew up with a mother who did spring cleaning every year.

I mean, top of the house to the bottom. And when I don’t, well, there’s unbelievable guilt. So I have no choice. I must clean.

I grab my Swiffer and my Magic Eraser and get after it. Pretty soon, though, I find myself crying into my bucket and asking Mr. Clean to just…hold me.

So there you have it. Spring is just too much pressure. Bring on summer already.