We had our first dusting of snow last night. I’m not a big fan of cold. I’ve been known to take two-hour baths just to soak up the heat. Of course I’m too cheap and environmentally frugal to turn up the thermostat either. If you can’t tell from the previous sentences, I’m not a big fan of winter. I don’t ski, skate, or participate in biathlons, I don’t like bundling up, and I don’t often indulge in coffee, tea, or hot chocolate.

And yet I find the pictures of snow-covered homes nestled in white woods strangely compelling and comforting. I think I’m attracted to the myth of winter rather than the actuality. I love the thought of a cozy fire (we haven’t lit one in at least two years), hands wrapped around a warm mug (see statement above), wearing a big, warm fuzzy sweater (body image issues get in the way), watching snow fall from behind a window. Yeah, reality tends to muck up the myth. Slipping on the road while driving, the dogs wiping their muddy paw prints on my carpeting (snow doesn’t stay on the ground long here, so the backyard turns to mud), no cookies baking in the oven (I don’t like to bake; heck I don’t like to cook, but that’s a whole other rant), the wind cutting through the layers and there’s always that one inch of exposed skin on your face no matter what you do. My nose runs, my eyes sting, my feet and fingers don’t warm up until May.

After careful analysis, I think I need to live in a climate controlled bubble. I am such a whiner.

Books I’m reading now:
The Blinding Knife by Brent Weeks
Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet by Darynda Jones

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