This hasn’t been my best year, ladies and gentlemen. No, this one officially qualifies as an ordeal. A tribulation (in theological terms). Oh, Hell, it’s an effing nightmare. I’ve been battered and trounced and kicked while I’m down. I’ve taken a pasting.
Yet here we are, on the brink of Thanksgiving, a day of celebration and the counting of blessings. So what am I supposed to do? I’ve nothing left to count. Should I give thanks for the case of shingles I got in October? For my squirmy, screeching upstairs neighbor? The totaled car? A flooded apartment? That kind of stuff? Fine, we’ll be here ‘til Christmas — Valentine’s Day, at the latest.
Wait, I do have one reason to thank my lucky stars. One very good, very compelling reason: I don’t live in Buffalo under seven flipping feet of snow. Hallelujah, thank you, Jesus.
Okay, I know, it’s already melted, but it was there. And it will be back. Again and again and again and again … I, however, will be here. In my own frozen Hellscape, sure, but minus the 84 horrifying inches of snow all at one time.
I can endure the subzero temperatures and the windshield scraping and the bitterly cold wind; I can abide the chapped lips and hat-hair; I can withstand carpet shocks and teeth chattering and, yes, even the violent shivering. But I draw the line at snow. Any snow. Even a flake.
Snow makes everything a job and a claustrophobic one, at that. The entire universe shrinks to the width of a cleared path or a plowed road wedged between towering piles of dirty snow. Normally a colorful and vibrant place, earth looks as barren and forbidding as deep space. And earthlings, that’s you and me, are forced to dress like space travelers — from the outsized headgear to the puffy boots — because of said crappy weather conditions.
So, I’m sorry, Buffalonians, but I’m glad I’m not you. Thrilled, really.
Now, here’s to an early and glorious spring for us all. A happy Thanksgiving, too.