Over winter

I am over winter. Over unshoveled walks, ice slicks and banks of snow in crosswalks. Freezing in my own house to the tune of exorbitant utility costs and working late because the office is warm. I am over wanting and needing to stay in the house. Feeling fat. Lazy. Eating untold pounds of potatoes, gallons of soup and loaves bread. Unfreezing pipes with a blow dryer.

Done.

Finished.

Over.

Unfortunately, winter's not over me.

It's just the first of February. The groundhog has yet to poke his head out and look for a shadow, and if he's smart, he'll just stay in his burrow under a blanket or five, curled up with a good book, because it's supposed to snow again tomorrow. And this weekend. And for the rest of eternity or so it seems at the moment.

Life would be much harder if I lived somewhere else, in one of the places that my family lives. Minnesota. North Dakota. Norway. My great-grandmother lived in an 8x10 sod hut as 21-year-old homesteader at the turn of the century but that is not me. My roots run deep and strong, my stock hearty, but I am done.

In a week or so, I will escape to Louisiana, to New Orleans and my first Mardi Gras, which should be warmer, I hope, but travel vouchers issued in response to snow-canceled flights cannot help. I don't want to escape. I want to feel at home when I'm at home without a hair dryer in the kitchen to unfreeze my pipes.

My sense of wonder has ended. I am tired and cold. The smell of wet wool lingers even when I'm not wearing it and I miss my silk dresses. I miss dresses, in general, as I try to figure out the wide-wale, plum skirt that's too short for winter and too thick for summer. With a casual misstep, a quick blink of the eye, I'll miss its season entirely, yet I try. I've worn it a few times, shivering. I tell a stranger on the Metro, someone wearing something other than black, that she looks pretty and she sighs.

"I'm ready for spring."

In a few short months, "hazy, hot and humid" will replace "wintry mix" on the morning news and we will, I will, complain. It's just hard to imagine as I pull layer after layer over my head, losing the ability to bend my arms and any visible indication of gender to bulky drab shades of thick winter fabrics, to corduroy and gabardine, velvet and wool that makes me itch. I long for the comfort of cashmere, of angora, knowing that it would only make me miserable.

I am miserable but there are things I like about this snowy season. I know there are, and I struggle to remember them, to focus on something other than the chill in my bones.

Snow angels. I have my own yard, I can make them. I could. I should. Maybe I will.

Snow angels and soup and hot chocolate with marshmallows. Thick woolen hats that make me look silly and mittens. I like mittens. Balling my hands into fists with my fingers keeping each other warm. Bright woolen coats. Orange and red and green. Buttoning up to my chin. Burying my chin a chunky knit scarf or the neck of my coat, peering at the world with barely visible eyes. I like the weight of a pile of blankets and the way they stay put even when I move. Snow on the skylight and snow on my eyelashes. The days getting longer. The clear night sky. The smell of woodsmoke in the wind. Three-day weekends. The way the world stands still when it snows. The quiet, white world.

They fill my mind, these little half-formed thoughts of what I like about winter. The smell of snow, my eyes hanging on Orion's belt, black bean soup. The knap of a velvet. The sound of ice cracking. The sound of nothing at all.

And as I remember about a million and a half little things I love about winter, I realize I might not be over it yet.


Tag: Winter