Snow

When I was a kid, I loved a good, paralyzing snow.

I remember my heartbreak when the town snowplow came through, ruining the classic Currier and Ives aesthetic. I loved being sealed inside, gazing at the snowy universe, like holding a snow globe, only the opposite. I dreaded the inevitable eviction by my mom, who thought it character-building for me and my sibs to waddle around the neighborhood in snow pants.

I have evolved into an adult who despises shoveling, the thought of shoveling, and being trapped inside. During the winter, my happy place is dead sleep.

Right this moment, a literal blizzard rages. My house is warmish, because so far, we haven’t lost power. I have no dearth of sweaters. But honestly, I’ve had it with this winter bullshit.

I have found one thing that makes me feel better, and without a therapist, I’m trying to work through why.

I love watching shows set in dramatically cold places like the Yukon or Lapland, where you can see the actors’ breath as they watch the Northern Lights in puffer jackets with fur-trimmed hoods. I like it even more when they go inside to the warmth of a roadside bar, or their humble, cluttered kitchen to fry up bacon and eggs. It eases my heart to watch the relaxed, perfunctory way they navigate everyday life in harsh places, dealing with the death chill deep in their bones like it’s normal.

Anyway, these days I’m surviving winter scripted, by proxy, and these nights, asleep.