“Nearly everyone gets twitterpated in the springtime,” is what I thought the other day when I saw two squirrels flirting behind my apartment building.
And it’s true. The weather is nicer, the sun is out, people frolic outside more and get tan and, we’ll just say, antsy. I think it’s something about the flowers. Some sort of secret pollen-pheromone thing, right scientists? Or, it’s just gonna be May.
Before May Day was affiliated with the 8-hour workday, workers rights, and worldwide protests, it was traditionally a celebration of spring. Of the twitterpated ones.
According to the Encyclopædia (say it like Ted Mosby) Brittanica, rites were likely performed to “ensure fertility.” A May King and Queen were crowned, people danced around Maypoles (phallic?) and played an ancient form of ding-dong-ditch with baskets of pretty flowers. And the whole thing was so risqué that the Puritans banned its observance.
While we recognize the need for labor standards and fairness and economic justice, the original, pagan roots of this holiday seem to be more up Boston’s alley and mood right now after an emotional couple of weeks.
So grab some pretty flowers, put them on your neighbor’s doorstep and run (cough, take a photo of them to post on We Love Beantown’s Flickr page first, cough), gather some friends and dance merrily around a hightop table at a bar, and go talk to that person that’s got “your head in a whirl.” Happy May Day!