To me, folks who love winter are like morning people: curious alien creatures who compel me to commit reprehensible acts of mayhem. I just do not get you freaks at all.
I am a true babe of summer. Going to the beach isn't just an ideal vacation, it's the ONLY vacation. I love to lie by the pool, go for short runs through my neighborhood and work in my yard. I desperately miss all of those activities in fall and winter, and count the weeks until I can do them again. (FYI, there are 110 days until the pools open. Just sayin’.)
As most people in this area of the country will attest, this winter has been especially brutal. I realize that the calendar shows we technically have six more weeks of winter regardless of what Punxsutawney Phil had to say this weekend, but Louisville’s temps usually warm up long before the spring equinox in March.
I am not optimistic about an early warmup this year, and it really pisses me off.
In my life these days, there is very little for me to complain about, so I usually don’t. Having an attitude of gratitude is much healthier for me, not to mention those around me.
But I loathe, hate and despise winter. It tests my emotional fortitude every year. Back when I used to drink, I always got the winter blues and retreated into the bottom of a wine bottle for about three months. I don’t get depressed like that anymore (thankyoubabyJesus), but I still have to toil against the powerful urge to hibernate.
A primary reason for any semblance of serenity I manage to maintain under the duress of this shitty winter weather is my fitness regimen. First, I am forced to get out of my house to go to my Pilates and Tabata classes, and second, the endorphins that pump through my bloodstream during class upgrade my mood from “serial killer” to “functional human” at least four times a week.
Since winter is being a bully this year and won’t get the hell off the playground, I’ve been ruminating (more than usual) on why I hate it so much. It’s not just the cold temperatures, either.
I hate it all: the cold air, gray skies, dead-looking vegetation, dry skin, bulky clothes and slick streets.
This little girl doesn’t have a lot of insulation, so I catch a chill when the temperature dips below 60 degrees. Since I am not willing to singlehandedly fund LG&E’s operations, I refuse to crank the heat in my drafty old Highlands bungalow up past 69. I might hike it to 70 long enough for a nice blast of warm air up my skirt, but I turn it back almost immediately.
I wear socks and hoodies in the house and sleep under a mountain of blankets. My skin always itches because I take obscenely hot showers that turn my skin the color of an angry sunburn (the irony of which is not lost on me).
I turn the heat up so high in the car that it chaps my lips. And do not get me started on the static electricity in my hair. I pretty much look and feel like a walking piece of parchment paper who stuck her finger in a light socket from November to March.
People (and it is always men) who tell me you can put more layers on during the winter but you can only take so many off in the summer can kiss my ass. THERE ARE JUST NOT ENOUGH LAYERS.
Speaking of layers, I hate winter clothes. In order to maintain a halfway normal body temperature when I am outdoors, I have to wear tights under lined wool pants, an undershirt and a thick sweater, all of which combines to make me look like a midget version of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.
I find it completely impractical to be fashionable in the winter months, which wreaks havoc with my self-image. I always feel more poised when I look my best, and that old bitch winter just won’t let me. Suffice to say, my ego takes a hit when it’s cold, and I am well into the first few weeks of spring (and more than a few cute outfits and good hair days) before I get some of my mojo back.
With all this damn snow on the ground, I haven’t even been able to wear cute boots because they have no tread on the soles. Even in the proper footwear, Amy walking on snow and ice is not a pretty picture. I am bound to bust my ass at least twice.
And me in a moving vehicle, trying to navigate this mess? Fuggidaboudit. I drive like a little old lady on a clear day. In the ice and slush, I may as well be in a coma, as effective as I am. (Yep, I’m the one doing donuts just trying to pull into my driveway.)
So, no… Unless I undergo a lobotomy and suddenly decide to participate in winter sports, I will not be spending any more time than is necessary outdoors when it’s cold. Snow is pretty for about five minutes, but on the whole, I really hate how barren the landscape looks in winter.
Here's my PSA for the day: Everything outside under the snow is brown. Brown, as you might be aware, is the color of poop. Which means that winter literally looks like shit.
There you have it, friends: I rest my case. Winter, the turd of all seasons, can suck it.
About Amy Higgs
A former newspaper columnist, Amy takes her random, slice-of-life stories to the web. After nine years, she's still just saying.