I Hate Winter - February 2010

I gaze out the window upon a blanket of white, the trees laden with fresh, clean snow, as I am ensconced safely in the house and I think:

I HATE WINTER.

I really can’t see any advantage to the cold, dreary days of winter, days when we are virtually trapped in the house, hunkered down and fortifying ourselves as if we were hibernating bears. I am grateful that I don’t have to torture myself with the decision of whether to go to work and that I don’t have to deal with snow days or delayed openings, with school buses and idiot drivers, with roads that normally seem flat but which in winter reveal their true incline is enough to make my car struggle to climb them. But regardless of the fact I deal with winter less than the average bear, I still hate winter.

I don’t ski, so the amount of snowfall is meaningless to me (as is the wind-chill factor; let’s face it, if it is that cold, I am NOT leaving the house). The idea of encasing my body in a tight-as-a-sausage-casing ski suit is as unappealing to me as hurtling down a mountain on thin pieces of fiberglass while my face or any portion of my body is exposed to frigid air and possible fractures. Snow means cold to me and ice, and ice means someone will fall and break something. I only hope it is not me.

Sure, the snow might look pretty, but with my street and driveway unplowed, I can’t get out to get any pictures anyway. The other day we had the perfect snow. The trees were covered and begging to be photographed, yet the street was down to blacktop, which is always my goal when it snows. Yet I knew that by the time I returned from aqua aerobics, the snow would have disappeared, no longer offering up a photo opportunity, and I was right. Maybe this snow, an amount significant enough to last for a few days, will be the one I capture with my camera. But not if I have to go tramping though the snow to take a picture. My face all red and my nose running from the cold is NOT my best look.

I know to be prepared, so the day before the predicted snow I trooped off to pick up a few supplies at the supermarket in town where the crazy people don’t go. Why is it that when snow is in the forecast, people storm ShopRite and strip it of every gallon of milk, loaf of bread, carton of eggs and even 24-packs of water? Are these people planning to be snowbound until June? I’ll admit that I did buy some extra orange juice for my sore throat and some toilet paper (my sister, skeptical of my purchase, asked with just a tinge of sarcasm, “Were you down to your last 12 rolls?”), but I really went to get the ingredients to make soup. What better way to fortify myself for a day of watching out the window as the plows go down my street and driveway than to have a nice hot bowl of soup, I ask.

Recently I was in the Washington, DC, area where I watched the news the night before a predicted storm. You would have thought from the amount of coverage – breaking news and a special logo to brand the storm – that this “snow event” was about to be deemed “the storm of the century.” Reporters interviewed the plow operators and the emergency personnel, all of whom confidently declared, “We are ready,” as pictures of piles of salt and sand standing by calmed the worried public. Personally, I think TV uses the same picture of salt and sand and trucks standing by every year. How could we tell last year’s pile of salt and sand from this year’s pile? Anyway, so the emergency staff was ready and raring to go. Only the next day, as I trudged through the unplowed snow on the interstate to get to the basketball game I had come to the area to see, not a plow or salt spreader had graced the highway. Where were all of these people who had assured me they were ready? On the way home, as I battled the elements again, I saw several of them, parked under an overpass so as to avoid the slick conditions they were supposed to alleviate. Ready? For what, a TV interview? Because they sure weren’t out there removing snow.

I hate driving in snow. My Mercedes doesn’t like it either, as she reminds me by skidding to a halt at every stop sign or red light. So I take the convertible out instead, which strikes me as a bit ludicrous since I am hardly about to put down the top when the temperature is below freezing. Not only do I have to worry about stopping my own car, I have to worry about the idiot drivers who make no concessions to the conditions and barrel down the streets and highways without leaving an appropriate distance (is a half a block enough?) between their front end and my rear end. Yes, snow is a pain in the butt in every possible sense.

Eventually the snow will melt, leaving the streets slushy and the roads messy and the cars in front of me spitting crud onto my windshield. We will all drive around in filthy cars with limited vision through our streaked windshields and only the car wash will rejoice in the aftermath of the “snow event” for a few days.

Personally, I can’t wait until I see the plywood come off the windows of the ice cream place on Hamilton Street. Though I lived within five miles of that place or passed it on my way home for about 30 years, I think I actually stopped there for ice cream only twice in my life. I say forget about that stupid groundhog. The sure sign that winter is over is when the plywood comes off the windows and the “OPEN” sign is lit at the ice cream place. Not that I eat ice cream until Memorial Day (my personal rule is no ice cream in the winter, no soup in the summer), but I know that winter is over when ice cream becomes more news than ice. When that happens, can spring be far behind?

Until then, let me reiterate: I hate winter.