March
I hate it when people talk about the weather. It's such a dull, over worn topic, but here I go, talking about the weather myself.
Winter doesn't bother me, especially now that I work from home. But even when I didn't -- even that winter when I was a reporter and drove home at 10:30 every Tuesday night in a blizzard -- I didn't truly mind. I actually welcomed the occasional squall, especially the one that hit at 7 a.m. and continued until about 2 p.m., because then I could call in sick to work. Snow day!
Here in the cold, white north, winter beats us up. It has been especially mean this year, so freezing that everyone's toilets have frozen -- such a pleasant thing to deal with -- and furnaces are asking for overtime pay.
But despite its horrors I don't hate winter, and there aren't too many times a year that I genuinely suffer through (except, of course, a mild, rainy summer -- those are a bummer).
Summer is tops, beating out the other seasons even when it's 95 degrees. Autumn is beautiful and winter can be, with its pristine white snow and the promise of Christmas. I even take walks outside in winter; few things are as beautiful as bare trees frosted with new snow. Spring, of course, is intoxicating -- with the sun warming and the buds blooming on the trees.
But March really gets on my nerves. It's the month after my birthday, which signals the end of winter fun for me. Plus, by this time even I am sick of the snow, wondering desperately when spring will finally arrive during the (hopefully) last snow storm of the season.
I keep running over in my mind the memory of a couple years ago, when I read Hunger Games on my back patio in 75-degree heat -- in March. I'm hoping history will repeat itself even though last week, I woke up to a temperature of 10 below zero. Mother nature is fickle and I am in denial.
However, the main reason I hate March is because I'm tired of people telling me it's cold outside.
I know that it's terrible -- shoveling, plowing, fuel oil expenses, commuting in blizzards, wearing six layers of clothing -- I know, I get it because I'm living it, too. When you come in from outside and tell me that it's cold, you're not giving me news. I know it is 14 below -- I was out there just a minute ago. I know there's a lot of snow on the ground, too: I also just experienced the same snow storm that brought 12 inches to earth in 30 minutes.
I don't like having my skin peeled from my skull by a 30 below wind chill any more than you do. But you don't hear me complaining about it.
If you're going to live close to the Arctic, you're going to have to accept winter. It comes every year -- you can't claim to be surprised. Like many rotten things in life, you must accept the situation and make the best of it. Go to Florida, take up a winter sport, never leave the house -- whatever works.
Just keep telling yourself that spring is on its way and before you know it, it'll be summer. Then you can complain in exhaustive detail about how hot it is outside, how you wish you could walk around naked, and that running the air conditioner is too expensive.
Some people can't be pleased.
The Piker Press moderates all comments.
Click here for the commenting policy.