I have come to the conclusion that there are certain days that should
be A) outlawed and B) reserved for Eskimos, Penguins, and carefree children.
I am of course talking
about snow days. The vindictive icy finger of winter. The days where Russia, or
some unpronounceable quarter of the world thereabouts, decides to pass on its weather
system and, technically, ruin a perfectly good day ... and compared to snow,
even rain is considered a good day.
My daughter loves
these kinds of days. I also suspect that she finds delight in those kinds of
days because of the expression on my face as I open the curtains, sigh, and
reside myself to a day of frostbite and wet clothes. In fact, I’m almost
certain of it. I hate it, and she knows it. I’d rather sit at the table with my
coffee and my notepad and do something just a little productive. She, on the
other hand, will find the warmest set of clothes (she’s no fool), don gloves,
coat, and hat, and stand cheerily beside the back door with a grin on her face
that says: well, are you coming or not? Even the dog is in on it.
Obviously, I have no
option in the matter. She’s made the choice for me. I have to go out. I have to
venture into the white stuff, pretend I’m having fun, and hope to God she tires
of being cold and wet before I get pneumonia.
It never works out.
Not while there are snowballs to be had, snowmen to be constructed, and
certainly not while I have a breath of complaint left in my frozen lungs. My
daughter, it seems, wants to see me suffer because it’s good fun.
The snow has only been
here for a week or so, and we have not had it as bad as some parts of the
country, but I’m already tired of it. My fingers can’t take much more of it.
I’m pretty sure they
will drop off one day; I just hope that rain comes before that happens.
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