I’m Not Looking for Sympathy

Realistically, I’ve got nothing to complain about.  But I’ve been feeling off of late.  The cold that never leaves.  The lack of birthday celebration (yes, I am such a big baby that nearly a month later I’m not over it.  I’m trying to get over it.  But I’m not yet.  Please don’t think poorly of me).  The lack of integrity as a writer. The inability to stay up later than 10:00 at night.  The weather.

The wind is whipping, and although the digital thermometer reads 19.2 degrees, it feels much, much colder than that.  In about half an hour, my dogs will turn their pleading eyes to me, and I’ll bundle up in Neal’s hefty winter coat that makes me feel like I’m wearing a sleeping bag.  We’ll cross the street that people always drive excessively fast on (oh, I’m a bitter soul today), and we’ll enter the woods.  I won’t stay on the path today, though, because under a kiss of snow is ice.  I.C.E.  Treacherous, villianous, nasty ice. 

"Ice," I’d like to tell it.  "Ice, I once adored you.  Remember all those winters in New York when I skated on you every day?  Remember how each November I would begin to visualize you?  Remember how I would sprawl on you and look at the leaves frozen in your grasp?  Remember that one time I was so happy that you were there on Christmas morning that I kissed you?

"Remember all that, Ice?  Well, it’s over."
Ice, of course, being of the cooler personality type, would not really care.  But I would continue.

"You made me fall yesterday in a low-down trick."  Would Ice even blush?  Melt a drop?  No.  Ice pulled one over on me, and as I sit, warm albeit cranky, my shoulder hurts, my hip is bruised, and I’m just waiting for Mr. Sunshine, Mr. Fun, Mr. Temperature-One-Hundred-One to take revenge for me.

One thing has made the shoulder feel better.  You guessed it: ice.