Warm weather ruins my bad attitude
(Originally published January 2023)
I love winter in Vermont. At least, I love it for a few weeks.
Then, on or around December 26, my murmurs of “Isn’t the falling snow peaceful?” and “The house feels so cozy” change to cries of “How much longer must we sun-starved animals endure this barren, frigid hellscape?”
OK. Maybe I don’t love winter in Vermont.
The season, if you hadn’t noticed, tends to be marked by weeks of bitter temperatures, icy winds, and hazardous weather conditions brought on by frequent storms. For me, going anywhere requires planning and grit.
Unlike in summer, leaving the house entails more than just getting in the car and driving away. Instead, it becomes an arctic adventure in which, armed with an ice scraper and snow shovel, I must overcome frozen doors and thigh-high snowdrifts for the privilege of driving on treacherous roads. Assuming the car starts, that is.
Cleaning off the car leaves me with numb fingertips and a bad attitude. And every year, my windshield wiper blades lose their motivation halfway through the season. Faced with the merest glaze of ice on the windshield, they prefer to snap off rather than do the job I hired them for.
While Mark maintains a stoic silence regarding his feelings about the weather, I like to keep the world posted on mine. I gripe about our drafty windows and rant about the how the chicken coop latch has iced over again.
I announce the state of my extremities every hour on the hour (“Feel my hands—like ice, right?”). I’ve curated a special series of curses for when the tarp on the woodpile freezes into the ground, encasing the firewood in an impenetrable wrapper. A normal winter, in other words, keeps me miserable for months.
“In a proper winter, I expect—nay, demand—to be perpetually uncomfortable.”
In contrast, this winter—having been mostly mild and snowless so far—has kneecapped my cold-weather commitment to being the whiniest person in the room at all times. I don’t know how to handle it.
I keep up the charade of discontent as well as I can. But about the best I can manage most days is “It’s only gonna be 37, so I probably should bring mittens.”
Weak.
I’m feeling so desperate that lately I’ve found myself cheering at rumors of upcoming cold snaps. “Oo, single digits next Wednesday. Brr!” I say with an exaggerated shudder, hugging myself and grinning.
Looking at the long-range forecast, I perk up when I see a snowflake icon. “Mark!” I say, like I’ve just found a sack of gold coins. “It’s going to snow next week!” But then, crestfallen, I say, “Only a dusting to an inch, though.” At this rate, my wiper blades are going to last all season.
You think I’d be happy. It’s not like I enjoy the cold. It’s not like I want to deal with snow after Christmas. Still, complaining about the brutal weather is part of my identity. It’s what I do. In a proper winter, I expect—nay, demand—to be perpetually uncomfortable. Otherwise, what’s the point of spring?
Monday morning was finally, if briefly, wintry, at least by this year’s standards. It was 14 degrees, with a nasty wind chill.
When I came back in from feeding the chickens, I yanked off my mittens and rubbed my hands together. I had survived four minutes in the harsh outdoors.
I pulled a stool as close to the wood stove as I could get without my socks catching on fire. As I hunkered down, coffee cup in hand, I watched Mark bundle up for a day of work—outdoor work.
With every sip I took, he wordlessly added another layer. Finally, he grabbed his lunch, sighed and opened the door, bracing himself against the biting wind that met him head-on.
To offer him moral support for the eight hours ahead, I said, “Brr!” with an exaggerated shudder, hugging myself and grinning.
He turned to look at me for a moment, then muttered something I couldn’t make out through all the layers. I imagine it was along the lines of “Stay warm by the fire today, dear!” Then he shut the door a good 40 percent harder than was necessary, no doubt in an effort to better block the wind.
What a sweetheart. He knows how rough winter is on me.
