If Winter Were A Person
Here in my neck of the woods, summer seems to leave like when I high-tail it out of Costco on a busy Saturday afternoon after I’ve paid my bill. I’m getting the hell out of there if it means I have to run over a few people, including the old lady who absentmindedly just stops to check her receipt and fiddle with the zipper on her purse in the middle of four lane “get me an Advil” shopping traffic.
This year, it’s happened yet again. A week ago, it was warm and sunny, and this morning, I woke up, went downstairs to make breakfast, opened the back door to let in some fresh air (as per usual), and there it was – all cold, intrusive, and uninviting. Fucking winter.
OK, so it’s not winter yet. Contrary to what you might think it’s like up here in Canada, we don’t have snow on the ground in September. At least not in Ottawa. It’s chilly though. My son had to wear a jacket when he left the house this morning at 8:30, and I will undoubtedly be wearing pants with my flip flops when I head out later on. That’s right, I hold on to the idea of warmth for as long as humanly possible.
I hate the cold. In my last life, I’m sure I lived somewhere along the equator, probably overlooking the ocean. And I only ever wore shorts and a tank top. Maybe even just my bikini. Or possibly even a loincloth. Or perhaps nothing at all…ever. OK, I’ll stop. We won’t go there.
Bottom line: I enjoy warm, hot even. Bring it on. I have air conditioning for when I need it.
What I show great disfavour for, and what makes me recoil and feel slightly nauseous – cold, frigidity, frozenness, iciness, glaciation.
And no, I don’t ski – obviously. That’s like trying to run with unnecessary planks shackled to your feet, in very distasteful weather no less, while wearing a giant padded onesie. Like why?
As much as I don’t like winter, I think about it a lot, perhaps because I can’t get away from it. It is my estimation that if winter were a person, it’d be a loud, obnoxious, beer-swilling, pot-bellied, rudely farting man. And he’d just barge right in and say, “I’m here folks. Anyone want to pull my finger?”
“No, winter. I don’t want to pull your finger. I don’t care what crap you have in store for me over the next six months.
Days when I wake up in the morning to four feet of snow in my driveway – who wants that?
Days when I slip on black ice and nearly break my neck. So what I was carrying a box of much-needed new wine glasses? It doesn’t matter. I’ll make do and drown my sorrows by drinking that Pino Grigio out of an empty margarine container if I have to.
Days when I can’t even make that scarf look fashionable, and I have to wrap it around my face just so I can breathe without my lungs turning to ice.
Days when my feet get so cold from being outside that my toes are numb and slightly black for hours after. Funny winter – really funny.
Days when I just want to frolic in the grass, sing happy songs, and encourage the butterflies to alight on my shoulder, and I can’t because there’s snow and ice all over every G.D. where.
No, don’t worry about me, winter. I’ll suffer through you…if I have to…for now. But just like if you were an actual man – I’ll be looking for another option, perusing the real estate boards in search of a property in the sunny south. I think I’d like something at the water’s edge, with really BIG windows, if you get what I’m sayin’.
And to think, I always wondered why my grandparents spent six months in Florida every year.