My fingers rested on the keyboard for quite some time, the cushiony tips melting into the recesses of the little squares. I am not just blocked; I am frozen. My body aches, my mind wanders, my hopes are dashed each morning the moment I check the local news to find the weather has still not improved. After twenty-nine years of Chicago winters, years during which I was often baffled by the folks who seemed surprised by the weather, I am, every day, surprised by the weather.
And still, come to think of it, surprised by what passes for serious news on morning television. I know most people watching the weather girl are focusing on her cleavage and don't really hear what she's saying, but I am a great multi-tasker. While my eyes go wide with awe at the unnaturally low cut of her pre-dawn dress -- maybe she came straight to work from, um, a party? -- my ears burn with puzzlement. "It will be a cool day," she says. Since when does eighteen degrees -- Fahrenheit, that is -- qualify as cool? "Cool," in my inexpert opinion, is the slight dip in temperature on a summer evening that reminds us to grab a light sweater. Maybe we're all just so sick of the cold we can't even say the word out loud. Maybe she was just overheated from her evening activities.
And still, come to think of it, surprised by what passes for serious news on morning television. I know most people watching the weather girl are focusing on her cleavage and don't really hear what she's saying, but I am a great multi-tasker. While my eyes go wide with awe at the unnaturally low cut of her pre-dawn dress -- maybe she came straight to work from, um, a party? -- my ears burn with puzzlement. "It will be a cool day," she says. Since when does eighteen degrees -- Fahrenheit, that is -- qualify as cool? "Cool," in my inexpert opinion, is the slight dip in temperature on a summer evening that reminds us to grab a light sweater. Maybe we're all just so sick of the cold we can't even say the word out loud. Maybe she was just overheated from her evening activities.
To those of us who greet the new day with the afterglow of a hot flash (as opposed to the afterglow --and cleavage -- of a weekday morning walk of shame), it is not cool outside. It is not even just cold. It is Cold with a capital C, generally preceded by some profane adjective. Harbingers of spring, nevertheless, have teased me into a false sense of optimism. March came in like a lamb, relatively speaking anyway, if only because the sun was shining. Birds chirp their impatience outside my window, wishing, no doubt, they had not flown in early just to beat the springtime rush. The sun sets later, and looks to be higher in the sky. Awards season in Hollywood has come and gone, and there hasn't been a snow day in weeks. The rosy Olympic glow that had been cast over Russia has been replaced by the pall of brutality in the Ukraine. Fat Tuesday yesterday, Ash Wednesday today, Lent is upon us. I'm converting to Catholicism. I'm giving up shoveling. I hope the Easter bunny has a good pair of boots.
My optimism knows no bounds. When I heard plows rumbling by in the middle of the night I chose to believe they were just low flying planes. When I woke and assessed the latest layer of snow blanketing my driveway I deemed it a mere dusting and convinced myself that giving up shoveling for Lent was a fabulous idea. The snow will melt, eventually. And if I toss any more snow on the thick piles closing in on my narrow drive my car will be stuck in the garage until May.
Let it snow.
Let it snow.
