Winter is freezing my brain and blowing my compassion out the window (and into the next state).
My primary goals every day are keeping my feet warm and making comfort food for supper. I don’t care if you’re cold, too — it’s every woman for herself!
It’s not a winning attitude.
I don’t think I’m the only one. Did you listen to President Obama’s State of the Union speech last night? Forget what you think of his policy declarations, did you listen to his speaking style? I think he sounded tired. He kept making little speaking mistakes, clipping words, restarting and restating. Maybe his lips were numb.
He is a poised speaker, so these mistakes are tiny, but for a guy who usually speaks superlatively, I noticed.
I’d be tired, too. I always got tired of a job after four years. I had mastered my duties by that point. I was ready to move on.
Just as Mother Nature has ground me into a crumble of my former self with her thumb, I’m supposed to be thinking about my taxes. Simply adding up a year’s worth of mileage, however carefully or sloppily tracked, makes me want to throw something violently. Like a snowball.
I should be celebrating. Life is good. Our house isn’t heated with propane. I haven’t been arrested for drag racing, my goofily smiling mug shot publicized around the world. My cruise vacation hasn’t been cut short because of rampant barfing.
Here’s what I’m celebrating: I’m celebrating I don’t live on Jupiter. Where it’s 234 degrees below zero.