So, here’s the thing: I am cold-weathered out. I am losing the will to live as a result of the cold and the snow and the ice and the salt that has ruined my boots and makes my car all gross and salty and ugly. I don’t want to go outside. And I’m effing tired of being inside.
In short: I’m ready for spring.
I’ve been patient with snow removal crews (who, in my opinion, are doing a pretty awesome job), and I’ve even rolled with the snowballs as we endured snow storm after snow storm, including the one that really messed up my moving plans. But I’ve had it.
I had a panic attack – an actual panic attack – when I couldn’t get out of my apartment last week because the snow bank/drift in my parking garage driveway about four feet high and another four feet across. I even tried to shovel it out with a pitiful, plastic shovel that my parents gave to F for Christmas.
I kicked a snowbank in the middle of my semi-temper tantrum.
I have cursed at Kalin Mitchell when he said more snow was on the way.
I just want flowers. And bare legs. And for my face to not freeze so much that I can’t tell if my nose is running when I walk to work. Is that really so much to ask? REALLY?