Ah, snow. You were such a novelty when you fell in late December. Never before had I seen 16 inches of fluffy white snow fall in Virginia. I welcomed your fresh mantle for a white Christmas. We were amazed that you were still with us at the end of the year.
Now, weeks later, I simply loath you. You're a guest who has outstayed his welcome and I can't stand to see your filthy, rotten presence anymore. I'd rather have a bare landscape of browns and grays than the stained, gray icy crust peppered with gravel that continues to lay around here. I long for a break in the weather that will allow the temperatures to climb into the 40s and finally melt this slush away.
The snow and ice and the continual subfreezing temperatures has left me in a funk. I am the poster child for seasonal affective disorder. The holidays are a distant memory and spring is still far, far away. I'm tired of hearing the wind howl outside the window. I hate having to go outside in 20 degree weather. The skin on my hands is dry and cracked. I hate the static electricity that comes from bone dry air and the wool or fleece sweaters I can't do without. I long for fresh air in the house, greenery outside, and birdsong in the mornings. I've seriously contemplated going to bed for a couple of months until spring returns. I figure with any luck I'd lose twenty pounds and Ally might be potty-trained by the time I wake up.