After returning from a three-day respite to the relatively hot weather of Arizona, I hereby place a moratorium on all weather-related waxing.
I won't complain that we still have many feet of snow on the ground almost halfway through March, nor will I lament the fact that I had to re-box all of the short-sleeve shirts I had unpacked for our trip south. I won't even mention the fact that the reports of more snow this week had me so wracked with disappointment earlier today that I almost accidentally drove my car into a ditch.
Because I'm getting tired of hearing my own self talk about the temperature. I'm tired of the anxious, depressed looks that cross the faces of shoppers when they see the bathing suits and sandals in the window displays of chain stores. I need to reclaim the me that sees this as one big, fun, ice-covered adventure.
Maybe the act of embracing our never-ending winter will increase my fortitude in the face of future adversity. Maybe it's a gift from the gods, allowing me a last-ditch chance to learn to snow-shoe. Maybe it will force me to fill my time reading things other than the updates from the National Weather Service, which, in turn, will make me a more interesting person at dinner parties. Maybe it means my out-of-town friends will stop secretly rolling their eyes whenever we talk on the phone.
Maybe. But if I talk about weather one more time before June, please, somebody start spamming me.