This weekend was all about life disruption in the form of over a foot of snow. Some say a foot-and-a-half. I don’t know because I stopped listening.
As my car crawled along the highway this morning (not really slippery on the highway right now but, you know, everyone must act as if it is) on my way to work, I wondered, “Is it really such a noble thing to suffer these terrible winters and then talk about surviving them as if it’s a badge of honor?” I’m not so sure anymore. I never really considered moving to a warmer climate until these past two years when I’ve started to seriously wonder what the hell I’m doing? What is the pay-off? I mean, let’s be honest, it blows here in the winter.
It blows because for every storm there are all the stages. First, the build-up. People get squirrely and glassy-eyed and go about gathering up provisions and they just want to talk, nonstop, about the forecast. “Could it be true that we’re going to get two feet of snow? What should we do? Why are we at work? This is going to be crazy!”