“When anybody asks, 'What are you writing about now?' if I try to reply, the book-in-the-works sounds so idiotic to me that I think, 'Why am I trying to write that puerile junk?' So now I give up; if I could talk about it, I wouldn't have to write it."
- Madeleine L'Engle, A Circle of Quiet


On Winter

Monday, February 10, 2014

I'm so over it.
It's February, which is pretty much the Coldest Month of the Year here in the frigid upper midwest. February and January duke it out every year for that title, but February pretty much always takes home the trophy in the end.

This is also about the time every year when I start to wonder if the world will ever be warm again. I know, I know. It's February. It's supposed to be cold. My brain knows that, but my poor, cold little heart is afraid.

I'm afraid that I will never again feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, that one of these days I'll wake up to find that it's the middle of June and it's still ten degrees below zero and there's still snow on the ground and I still have to give my Jeep ten minutes to warm up before I drive it and I still can't wear short sleeves and ... and ... and ...

Winter is cruel. I know there are places in this world where winter is a respite from the cruelty of summer, but where I live winter is the cruel one. Summer can be a big meanie, but winter ... It's like the biggest schoolyard bully ever. It's the bully that bullies the bullies. It steals your lunch money (hello heating bill), slaps you across the face when you step outside, hits you so hard it takes your breath away and when you complain it just laughs and does it some more. Winter makes you want to never leave the house, ever again.

Winter. I'm so over it.