I’m talking about stoopid, stoopid winter. What a perfectly horrid, malicious season. A few days of its frigid, blustery shenanigans is about all I can take, you know? More than that is just plain spiteful. And wrong, very, very wrong.
This year, for some reason, has seemed particularly long and unnecessarily dreadful. We’ve endured days and weeks and months of bleak, discouraging skies and biting, bitter wind. Snow and sleet and ice have coated our sidewalks and roads and roofs and lawns and cars, freezing everything solid. Including me.
Yesterday, the weather sent me right over the edge — plink, ahhhhhhhh. Every time I looked out the window, every stinking time, snow was falling out of leaden gray skies. It was blown hither and yon, zigging and zagging, swirling and eddying in an unrelenting arctic wind. The poor trees stood with stark, bare limbs outstretched in supplication, begging for mercy.
My friends, it was like being trapped inside a snow globe, one that was strapped to a paint shaker. I snapped. I’ve had it up to here with collision alerts and parking bans; with school closings and advisories and warnings; with chapped lips and chapped faces and, yes, a chapped ass. I’m fed up with feet like ice cube trays and teeth that chatter and the unflattering blue tinge my skin has acquired.
So I cranked up the heat to 80º, turned on every light in the house, replaced my sweatpants with shorts and my wool socks with flip-flops, put Jimmy Buffett in the CD player, and I’m not coming out until spring. Until the birds are singing and the flowers are blooming and the skies are not cloudy all day. Or until I defrost, whichever comes first.
Until then, I’ll loan the Easter Bunny my hat with the ear flaps and my parka. But if I were him? I’d call in sick.
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