Slush Fun

The raspy voice on the speaker hanging over my head in Starbucks is insisting that by next year all our troubles will be miles away. "Next year" is kind of a big window; I'm dying to know whether the guy has any idea if I have to wait the full twelve months.

I suppose all I can do is follow his advice, and have a merry little Christmas now. Live in the present, like a good little yogi. But the present is so cold, and white Christmases are nice in theory but I can dream about one all I want and still, when I open my eyes all I see is gray slush. And filthy spreading puddles on the floor of my garage. And lots of yellow snow.

The truth is, though, I'm a fan of changing seasons, even when winter is the one rearing its cold ugly head. It's not just that suffering through a Chicago winter makes spring (such as it is) all the sweeter; winter has its own charms. It's a time to hunker down, to wrap yourself in fuzzy blankets and furry slippers and curl up in front of a fire (theoretically, since I'm a little afraid I'll blow up the house if I start tinkering with the fireplace) with a good book (again, theoretically, since I have the attention span of a flea these days and haven't picked up a book in months). Maybe the cold will inspire me.

The biggest problem with winter is it extends past the holidays. In December, the snow -- still a novelty -- is a beautiful backdrop against twinkling lights and long dark nights. Holiday music is not only instructive but soothing, and it's nice to see people spending money on crap they don't need. I'll certainly do my best to pitch in. But -- and maybe this is in the New Testament so I haven't gotten to it -- for some reason it all comes to a crashing halt in January. Strings of lights are rolled up and packed away in basements, days get longer but still colder, and the holiday music and shopping give way to healthy club parking lots overcrowded with fleeting crowds of resolute New Years exercisers and ridiculously long lines in stores for returns. Bah humbug. Why can't we just enjoy the merry little Christmas now through, say, the end of March?

My daughter and I came home at about five today, having had enough of getting in and out of the car to walk through the double indignity of icy slush (it's like having dry skin with pimples), and locked up the house, vowing not to leave again until tomorrow. We did a little holiday maintenance -- set up the train around our pink holiday tree and dragged the big-ass ladder in from the garage to replace some light bulbs in the hallway chandelier. A little extra twinkle to fight off the gloom, and a warm and fuzzy feeling of girl power for good measure.

For a little while, our troubles seemed to be miles away already.