Winter wonderland, my eye. Snow is a blight upon the land.
Granted, a nice clean layer of snow is lovely. It hides all manner of ugliness and decorates the world like a wedding cake. For a minute or two. Then along come the cars and plows and shovels and blowers and the loveliness disappears, poof. The fluffy white blanket is no longer fluffy or white or recognizable as snow, but as a wet, sloppy mess.
Plus, it’s slippery and treacherous, offering footing which is, at best, dicey. So having been forewarned by the local meteorologists that a measurable snowfall was imminent, I went ahead and fell down yesterday afternoon, tearing my pants and shredding my knee– in broad daylight on dry pavement. Just to get it out of the way, sort of a preemptive nosedive. Lying in snow is to be avoided, if possible. It soaks right through clothes, penetrating every single layer, and chills you right to the bone marrow.
The dog wasn’t happy about the unpleasant turn of events, either. She was very hesitant about the whole situation, preferring not to venture very far afield. The sidewalk was awful enough; grassy areas were a little too daunting. We were in complete agreement about the task at hand — get the job done and get back inside where it’s warm and carpeted.
Yet, as opposed as I am to snow, it is a charming addition to the holidays. Very Norman Rockwell. So, sure, it’s welcome to stay for Christmas. But Tuesday? It’s gotta go. Where, oh where, is the return window?
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