It’s well-known in these parts (these parts being the walls that make up my house) that I just really hate winter.
I hate it.
I don’t actually hate the season. I’m fine with snow and sledding and lighting the fire (except when I fill the house with smoke, shut up Jim). I like winter sports and Lord knows I’m not going to argue with kids in school from 8-3.
But the COLD. It’s just so… cold. I’m sick of having my lady nips enter the room five minutes before I do. I’m sick of my snots freezing inside my nose. I’m sick of chapped lips and cracked skin and toes that just won’t warm up. I’m sick of the fact that a Dutch Oven ain’t so bad, because at least it’s warm.
But I have to admit, I have a guilty pleasure in winter. And it’s that every time I see this:
I am utterly compelled to kick it, until it does this:
OH MERCY SWEET RELEASE! THANK YOU SWEET MOTHER OF LIFE!
The under-carriage snow hitchhikers. They grab on to your car and beg — BEG — to be kicked off. And I comply. Oh how I comply.
I comply so hard, I do it to the vehicles of strangers in parking lots at the mall. I look around from left, to right, behind me, feeling guilty. Dirty? No.
YES! YES! YES!
Jim doesn’t like it when I do it in the garage. The slop and wetness all over the concrete where the cars sit is too messy for him. But he otherwise also happily engages in this winter hobby. There is no shoe too wet, no toes too sore, no car alarm set off too loudly to make me stop.
Winter. I have found the one thing about you that is good.