[chimes playing a tune]
- Like a dieter thinking about the New Year,
I think about the approaching winter
and make plans for how I'll deal with it.
I'll be honest, what I really want to do
is curl up in my flannel sheets
and come out of hibernation when the lilacs are in bloom.
But since that's not an option, I tell myself
this will be the winter that I'll get out there so much
that my blood will get as thick as petroleum jelly.
I'll go for brisk walks in my sleeping bag coat
and suck up vitamin D through my face.
I'll make use of the skis in my garage
that are getting brittle from disuse.
I'll try to be more like the crazy people I know and envy
who don't mind, and even relish, the cold.
My brother-in-law could spend all day in hockey skates
clearing snow off a frozen lake with a broom
to make a gigantic skating rink.
I know cross country skiers and snowshoers
who can't wait to put on their ultra-light down jackets
and head outdoors as soon as the snow falls.
I have cycling friends who stud their bike tires
and clean road salt out of their derailers when they get home.
For them, winter is the best season.
They sleep with their window open a crack.
They find beauty in the snow on the branches,
the low, clear light, and the sight of their breath
suspended in air in front of them.
Don't these icicle huggers know that winter
is supposed to be un-loveable, punishing, dangerous?
Jack Frost kills his victims by covering them with snow.
Exposed to the elements for too long,
our digits can turn blue and fall off.
Winter means the search for the missing glove,
slipping on black ice,
clearing crud off our windshields
with the edge of a credit card,
that gross dampness on our wool scarf
after it's been on your mouth,
the mushroomy smell of boots,
and wind like rocks in your face.
Winter lovers tell you that it's all about having the right gear.
I wish it were that simple.
I'm one of those people who think of cold as a form of pain.
What I love about winter isn't the cold,
but the way I protect myself from it.
I like the contrast the bitterness
creates between warmth, like sea salt on dark chocolate.
When I try to think about what I love about winter,
I think of soup on the stove,
my favorite sweater,
curling up on a couch with a down throw and book.
I think of hot chocolate and fires and steaming radiators.
I think I could handle winter better
if it didn't stick around so long.
But I reach a point when the snow turns to dirty slush,
my happy-lamp stops working,
and the heating bill could be mistaken
for a college tuition invoice.
Winter's okay until I hate it,
and it gets ugly when I cross that line,
something that could happen
in a matter of months, weeks, or days.
But for now,
the season of fender-benders and broken hips has just begun,
and I'm cautiously optimistic.
[chimes playing a tune]
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