This is exactly how I feel about March.
March is a flirt, a coquette. She gives us 50-degree days in which we shed our coats and fill our lungs with spring and sunshine. The next day she throws a snowstorm at us, followed by a string of crackling-ice frosted-windshield days. March is ugly; the receding glaciers leaving brown stubble-grass and gouges of mud in their wake. The deciduous trees are naked, the evergreens are shabby.
Therefore we are fleeing March, heading to warmer climes to soak in the sun and sit in the sand. By the time we return, maybe March will have her act together. And if not, well, we’re better off out of the reach of the fickle old dame for a bit!