is upon us. Again. It has been for a couple of months now. Pretty much everyone agrees that it's old. Over. Stale. It's the extra three loaves of bread, two and half gallons of milk, and two eighteen packs of eggs we bought to survive a Nor'easter at the end of December. In a word: unappealing.
Most of us are sick of the snow and the cold and the shoveling. Dear god the shoveling! The random sixty degree days are little comfort: they melt the snow and ice, but it just refreezes once the sun has set.
The world turns into a solid sheet of black ice.
There are a few people, a crazy minority, who enjoy
the weather. They relish the crisp air. They revel in the bright layers of fleece and wool and down. They wake up early on the weekends looking forward to going out into the cold!