Us southern gentle folk are not made for single digit temperatures for days on end. No, we're made for wide open porches and sweet tea and golf and stuff. The mere suggestion of snow is the antecedent to milk and bread disappearing in all surrounding zip codes. Whole communities shut down with 1/2" of white dusting. A general sense of incredible joy mixed with life-threatening peril abounds. Schools cease and desist. And the novelty that is wintry precipitation takes hold on all of the neighbors... show shovels, sleds, beer.
The blizzard of February 2015, however, is one for the books. It's massive wind gusts of 45 mph not only freaked out the dog, it freaked out the humans inside the house next to the big oak tree. The "white out" conditions could be monitored from the bright lights of the Walmart parking lot across the way... naturally an un-manned, not-even-opened-yet giant corporation was lit up like a Christmas tree while families around the area struggled with no heat.
The snow fell and fell and fell until all was covered with an albeit beautiful but cold layer of the most powdery and crystalline 6 inches of white your little heart ever did see. And it was a wonderful experience... for 24 hours.
Then the freezing, refreezing, freezing and refreezing cycle began over the next few days making for life to go back to normal when it really wasn't and I was forced to walk in the snow in my Danskos.
Don't ever walk in snow in your Danskos. Not unless you wish to display your God-given talent of mimicking Michael Jackson on your way from the parking deck. I had a good run for a minute... but was so exhausted by the time I made it in to the actual office, I had to take a nap before I did anything productive. My colleagues wouldn't let me get any coffee until I moon-walked to the kitchen.
(I may or may not have taken creative license.)
Also, I've never eaten a bread and milk sandwich. Why are these the items that disappear? What are households doing with all of the bread and milk? Is it necessary? What about things like toilet paper? Water? Bourbon?
The novelty is wearing off. It's not that I'm interested in rushing through the seasons. Rather, I'm interested in being able to walk to my car without the bottoms of my pants being wet. I'm ready to wake up with ease, rather than immediately wondering how many of the coals in my fireplace are still burning. I'm ready to shower without battling the stark fear of hypothermia. I'm ready to relive the freedom of shaving my legs without the mockery of leg hair reappearing within 5 minutes.
I'm ready for temperatures to remain above 20 degrees so that the heat pump doesn't fill me with fear and anxiety that it is on the verge of explosion. I'm ready to take down the plethora of thermal blankets that have become make-shift curtains.
I just want my life back. Dear Winter, you have the propensity for being a real jerk. I love you in small doses. But now, I would like to wear my Danskos without being made to jive. I wish to make that choice alone without your overbearing demeanor. And my car is filthy with your aftermath.
You rush in under the guise of seasonal bliss, and trick us all with initial feelings of "yay it's a snow day"-ness. Only to find that we can't afford to heat the house and personal hygiene becomes a life or death situation. You have forced me to drink too much beer and not enough wine only because I couldn't make it to the store in time... and no one wants wine sandwiches.
I will sustain. I will rebuild. And I will be happy to find myself standing in 10 feet of dusty blankets to let the actual sunlight into my home. So take that you wretched cold anomaly of biblical proportions. What was once white, is now marred with brownish slough and dotted with yellow. My dog pees on you on the daily. Why? Because we're cold; we're wet and we're tired of you messing up our flow.
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