I woke up this morning and peeked out the curtains of my front window—snow. The same snow that has been there piled higher than my porch railing since Mother Nature declared winter months ago. The same pile just a smidgen higher and smidgen brighter with a fresh layer of powder dusting the top. I pulled my head back from the window and closed the gap in the curtain. “Don’t look.” I warned the dog. To which he set his head back down on his blanket with an audible ‘sigh’. I love how he trusts me to be completely honest with him.
I went to my computer and opened up the ‘Weather to come’ report on line. I almost wish I didn’t need to know…but the rink demands some insight. Rain, snow, ice pellets, temps hovering at a balmy -4 with a return to sub-zero double digits before the end of the 7 day outlook. I close the page—I can’t look.
My humour wanes as steam wafts from my brewing coffee, while outside the window snow gusts about—blowing off the roof in blustery puffs. In the bathroom I can feel a cool draft leaking in through the window as I try desperately to indulge in a hot shower.
I’m at the threshold, on the brink, ready to break.
I don’t want to see another flake or lift another shovel. I am tired of looking at my winter coat and making sure everyone’s mittens are accounted for before I leave for work. My neighbour is really getting on my nerves with his need to ‘Scrape—scrape—scrape’ his windshield every morning and remind me we are still frozen. I detest how weathermen are making up words like ‘snow-showers’ to trick us into thinking we are getting something new. I don’t want to see my breath anymore or my kids names etched on fogged up windows. I’m sick of cocoa and the guy with the ear to ear grin who wanders up and down the sidewalk all day just blowing snow. Is it technically homicide if I kill a snowman?
What I really want to see is my garage floor—not covered in snow and boots. I want to see the grass and birds and my patio. I want to spend time in flip-flops and sunscreen. The only ice I want to see is the kind floating in my glass. I want to cry.
And I did for a moment this morning while I was dressing in yet another sweater and pants ensemble snug from hibernation and comfort food. A single tear of frustration hit my lip and I could taste the salt of a rimmed margarita glass—sipped on a patio bar in the comfort of friends while enjoying the glow of a 9pm sunset. I want to be warm. I want to ‘slip’ something on. I want summer.
I’m going to get it.
I decided on my walk from the closet to the kitchen that winter is dead to me. No more cocoa, no more stew, no more biscuit baking, no more sweater buying, no more liking snowmobiling, ice fishing, snow-shoeing post of ‘friends’. I’m moving all winter coats to the closet and hanging spring jackets on the foyer hall tree at the ready. I’m going to shave my legs and pits every day! I’m going to trade in my comfy-pants for yoga pants and start melting off my insulation. It’s time for a pedicure polished off in a bright pink hue.
Summer is coming—whether Mother Nature is ready for it or not—and when she finally shows up with her UV index, smog and humidity warnings…I’ll be waiting in my lounge chair around a campfire fueled by the snow pants of 2013 with a smile on my face. BooYA! Mother Nature….glad you could make it to my party!
In the words of one of my favourite quotes from Dr. Wayne Dwyer…
Doesn't look like winter anymore!
I hope you can quit winter too.