Oh, the malaise.
Four women on a girls' weekend in Key West some time ago, and I can still hear one of us so succinctly capturing what the rest of us were thinking:
It. Is. Hot. Undeniably, ungodly, unbearably hot. Conditions so hot can quickly turn otherwise able-bodied, fairly adventurous human beings into unmotivated layabouts, who, when exiting a blissfully air-conditioned vehicle after a day in the blazing, blistering sun could look forward to little more than a short-distance shuffle into an equally air-conditioned hotel suite, there to do absolutely nothing for a good few hours, or until any sign of life force had been restored to the overheated bodies in question.
That was then. This is now. But I must have used my friend's out-of-season expression at least 10 times already this winter, thinking it a nice reminder that not only can't we always get what we want but we don't always want what we say we do anyway. Plus, I have snow malaise.
Still, if you're one of those people who've been running around cursing Mother Nature this week and begging for summer now, may I ask you to please check yourself before you wreck us all? I fear if we don't take our punishment with dignity now, the lady who pulls those meteorological strings might make us pay later. For whining.
So, which would you rather? Three below for a few weeks in winter or 102 in the shade for a month of summer?
Don't know about you, but we're not even out of January, I've given up, and I'm OK with it. Call it getting spoiled by last year's White Halloween surprise followed by pretty much nothing for the next five months, but I've hit my limit. I'm now a snow slob.
The first pouring-forth I was pretty good, I think. Didn't wait forever to go outside and did a nice job, too. Walkways, sidewalk and entire driveway beautifully cleared. Steps, too. Felt good. Invigorating even. Great cardio.
The second snowfall I slacked off a bit. Sidewalks and walkway still good. Steps a little iffy. And as far as the driveway, just a path for the car to get in and out would do.
By the third and fourth, I became a shiftless bum. And lost count of how many storms we've had anyway. (I might be making one or two up.)
Now to become a good snow bum, your bad attitude must start the night before. First you must rail against the forecasters who predict the stuff. Then you must assume they'll be laughably wrong, taking care to go to bed crazy late and overly confident. Pull the curtains tight and set the alarm for no earlier than usual. (Go, bad self.)
When you do arise, though, approach the windows with healthy fear. Because as you draw back the curtains to see what night hath wrought, get ready to wail and rail.
Mother Nature, Miss Thang, whoever you think you are – yes, yell at that snow! – I – we – do not have time for this!
Now there were reasons I wanted a house with a narrow driveway and not much sidewalk, and this is one. (Concrete is expensive to replace, and winter is a cruel taskmaster.)
Still, the size of my kingdom (or queendom) doesn't make me any less slapdash by snowfall four or so, when the cleared path might be the width of one shovel if things get really bad. And the driveway? Fugghedaboutit. It's lovely all in white. And truly the neighbors don't care. At least one doesn't anyway.
He told me so himself in a previous vexing winter, saying, hey, He who put it here will take it away and he was going back into the house. It pleased me to copy.
The Good Book backs him up: The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. (With credit to our suffering servant Job.)
Surely the sun will come out tomorrow, weary ones. It won't mind a little extra work.
Reach Sandra Snyder, the editor of At Home, at 831-7383 or firstname.lastname@example.org.