When you turn on the weather report, the newscaster almost always defaults to a positive sentiment when a warm-up is coming in the dead of winter.
And this weekend we can expect some much milder temperatures of nearly 60 degrees! Get out there and enjoy it because we’ll be back down in the 40s at the beginning of the week.
Wow, the oppressive 40s. Whatever shall we do? B says that I shouldn’t get so worked up over the weatherman’s obvious bias against the cold because I’m in the minority in my preference for frigid temperatures.
I am sentimental about cold weather. Driving and trudging through the snow isn’t enjoyable per se, but it’s the hallmark of the season and it makes me feel a bit more primal. I grew up in the Memphis area where we occasionally got snow and cold temperatures in the winter, but I certainly can’t say that I grew up in a “snow culture”. In order to compensate and fill that gap in my heart for biting temperatures and snow drifts (and to get another degree), I moved to Chicago when I was 21.
I got my fill. I learned what kind of boots work best, how to dig out my car from a three foot snow drift, what it feels like to sincerely think that your nose and ears are on the verge of becoming detached from your face. I fell on patches of ice too many times to count. In the middle of crosswalks on busy intersections wearing knee-high boots and dresses. I was, errr, fashionable (?)
While I was converting my Facebook page to Timeline the other day, I came across an old status update where I had written, “I honestly don’t know what kind of masochist I am that I willfully moved to a place that is capable of being this cold.” But something about the clattering old radiators in our apartment seemed to have made it alright.
We only had street parking and it was difficult to get a decent spot after a big snow. One Christmas Eve, I left the house in the morning to do the holiday grocery shopping. I was gone for about an hour and a half. In the time I was gone, B had spotted an Explorer-sized vacancy right in front of the building, dug it out, and then held sentry duty on it until I returned. Seeing the big, snow-less spot and my husband just standing in it when I returned, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was a mighty, mighty good man.
Then we moved to Seoul. Korea had some serious winters while we were there, and unlike Chicago, there wasn’t an infrastructure in place to really deal with it. The whole country often seemed to be paved in polished marble that, once moistened with rain or ice, made any attempt at walking at a reasonable pace impossible. Shopkeepers didn’t spread salt or sand on their icy stoops; instead they just impacted it more by dubiously sweeping it away with a broom. It was bizarre.
We had a couple of days at school that were cancelled because of the snow. Those days were made up on Saturday.
Did it annoy us? Well duh, yeah, but for some reason it was OK. On the morning of the snow holiday, we had woken to that ethereal stillness and quiet of snow that we had forgotten existed until we got to experience it again that morning.
It makes me a little sad when it feels like spring when it’s supposed to be winter. Actually, not a little sad. Very sad. I just love the winter so much. Today in my town it is 73 degrees, and it’s the first day of February. This winter has marked the first in years when I haven’t worn boots, gloves, earmuffs, hats, and double-lined socks at all. I wore my coat when we were in Memphis for Christmas, but since returning to North Carolina, it’s been hanging on the back of a chair.
It feels pleasant outside, but I’d kindly prefer it to be May or June. Right now I just want to be cold. Although this is partly because I’m at 31 weeks and I’m constantly getting overheated, I really do want to feel like winter didn’t pass me by this year.