SnowMaGetMeOutofHere

Two feet of snow landed in these parts over the weekend.  My facebook newsfeed is littered with updates from sick-in-the-head snow lovers frolicking - with sleds and skis and frisky, adventure-seeking dogs - in the special white hell outside my window.  They find this fun, while I find myself at the absolute peak of cantankerous.  The peak!  I tell you.  It isn't pretty. 

But you know, to each his own.  If some people find being boxed inside a cold, washed out, colorless world for months on end to be the epitome of childlike joy, I guess I can't stop them from entertaining this delusionary idea.  And I don't try to, really.  I don't rain on their parade.  (Although I daresay that if I did, it might serve to wipe that snow-eating grin off their faces for a little while when they realize they have to first bite through the frozen topcrust to reach the fluffy fun underneath.)  So why, please tell me, on top of being cold and cranky and nearly colorblind from the complete lack of any tint in the atmosphere other than gray and brown and white, why must I be shamed?  Why must people try to change my mind?  Why must I look at the bright side?  Where exactly is that, anyway?  All I see is gray.  Is it bright somewhere?  I just changed the lightbulb over the washing machine, is that what they mean?  It's only a 40 watter.  Not very bright.  They're not trying to trick me into doing their laundry for them, are they? 

So I spent 72 hours cooped up at home with Husband, Freshman and Seventh Grader and truly made a valiant effort to spin it into a less than torturous experience.  Finished the book I was reading.  Cooked cheese and cream and potatoes all mixed up together and served up the resulting Pan of Comfort over many hours of nighttime board games.  Had Pan of Comfort seconds.  Had thirds.  Read the Freshman's assigned novel cover to cover, plus two newspapers.  Exerted a reasonably large amount of energy demanding that Husband devise a solution to the problem of me wanting to drive the fireplace poker into my temple rather than spend another minute fending off my claustrophobic case of cabin fever.  That was most likely the heavy doses of Pan of Comfort talking.  It turns out that eating large quantities of potatoes and cheese no longer creates an inner feeling of comfort for me.  It does create an inner feeling.  Just not that one.

Poor Husband.  He tries.  He took me for a walk.  It was outside.  I was cold.  It actually wasn't bad, to be honest.  The snow had stopped and the wind had temporarily died down, and some faint kind of yellowish glow from the sky reflected off the whiteness everywhere, rendering me blind so that I had to rely on him to keep me from meandering into the middle of the road and getting hit by a car.  It was like he was taking his pet mole out for some fresh air.  His legs are about twenty times longer than mine, so it was really more like a frantic scurry for me, enhanced with cold and blindness.  It was nice.  Then we went back home, and the madness descended upon me all over again. 

Now I'm reading The Road, which happened to be one of the few remaining unread books on my shelf and what I pulled down upon regaining my sight and needing something else to do so I wouldn't hurt anyone.  It was either read another book or eat all six of the chocolate pudding cups in the refrigerator, which I decided wouldn't feel so good on top of the lingering Pan of Comfort experience.  Did I choose well?  Considering I now find myself 100 pages into a novel about a post-apocalyptic world of gray ash and blackened trees and people wrapping plastic and ripped up coats on their feet to serve as "shoes" while they try to survive?  Um. 

Tonight will be better.  Tonight I will eat vegetables and not look out the window.  I will find something to watch on TV that features palm trees and blue skies.  I will not snarl.  I may toss The Road into the fireplace.  That will feel good, and will be warm.  It will be all right.