It snowed. A whole stinking bunch.
All day long, frozen white crap came hurtling out of a dreary gray sky. Every stoopid flake is still out there, too, all 10+ inches, screwing everything up. The newly landed snow has no intention of melting, either, it’s in no hurry to leave. It’s only purpose, it’s raison d’être, is to make our lives grueling and hugely inconvenient. I loathe snow.
Yesterday morning, at the height of the snowstorm, I sat hunkered in my snow-covered car on my way to a funeral. Those events aren’t optional, you know, there is no rain date; they’re milestones. You go when they’re scheduled. So I did. I inched and crept along for miles, hunched over the steering wheel, squinting to see through the churning wall of snowflakes and fogged up windshield, following in the rutted tracks of other, previous travelers. That trip was as close as I’ll ever come to driving a boat. I’d no traction whatsoever, no braking ability — the car slid and slewed over hill and over dale. It was nothing short of nerve-wracking.
The driving was bad, of course, but wearing eighty pounds of clothes was worse. I happened to pass a mirror and, I’m not kidding, mistook myself for Sam Kinison. Oversized, flapping black coat, sweaters and turtlenecks and boots and mufflers, big, fat gloves. The only thing missing was the goofy headgear. Uncomfortable doesn’t begin to describe my state of being. I was trapped far beneath too many layers of clothes. Heavy, thick layers. It required a concentrated effort just to move.
Try being pleasant and sociable when you’re miserable, I dare you. All I could think about was peeling off my clothes and busting out of my straitjacketed confinement. Or maybe it was closer to being hog-tied. Well, whatever it was, I longed for the freedom of sweat pants and a loose-fitting shirt. Nothing more. Maybe some socks, but that’s it.
You know what I miss? Shorts. I adore shorts. They’re so wonderfully liberating and I feel deprived of them during these terrible, dreadful, long months of winter. I want to quit being a puffy, waddling cartoon character and go back to my usual freewheeling clumsiness. I’m ready to bring on the Band-Aids. Hurry up, springtime.
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