Not that I’m not over the cold. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m sooooo over this cold. But so is everyone else in this fucking hemisphere. There are people hanging out three feet north of the equator who are tired of it only being 73 degrees instead of 82 degrees. We’re all over the cold.
No, these are the other parts of winter that I’m fucking sick of, the other reasons why it seems like spring will never come.
This one equally baffles me and pisses the living shit out of me. As someone who spent most of her teenage years as a little grease ball, the concept that my skin needs additional moisturizing is completely foreign to me. And the itching. The itching! I lay in bed, trying to fall asleep, and all I can think about is how badly my arms or shoulders itch. So then I have to chose between getting out of my warm bed to slather more lotion on my carcass or attempting to fall asleep while feeling like I’m going to crawl out of my skin. (And yes, I realize that the real solution is to just apply the fucking lotion before I go to bed each night, thus, solving the problem before it becomes one. I’m not that smart when I’m tired.)
The epic emotional battle required to get go from a warm state of being to a cold one.
As if getting out of bed doesn’t hurt enough, there’s also now the pain of the biting cold to look forward to upon throwing off the covers in the morning. I’m not usually a snoozer in the morning; I’ll lay in bed for 15 minutes or so and go through my email, but then I’m up and getting on with my day. But when it’s cold out, and my bed is insanely warm? Fuck. That. Noise. I’ll stay in bed until forced at the exact last moment. Getting out of my bathrobe is another one. I have this giant, fuzzy white bathrobe that is oh-so-warm. If I don’t have anywhere specific that I have to be, I’ll spend at least an hour between my shower and getting dressed running around the house in my bathrobe, just because I can’t bring myself to take it off and expose myself to the cold.
But the worst, the worst, is when I first get to work. My office has a full-length exposed concrete wall and no actual heating vents, because it was never meant to be an office. It was meant to be a closet. So when I get to work, my office is frigid. I have a little space heater that lives under my desk permanently from November until May, but it takes time for that poor little guy to bring the overall temperature above that which is ideal for storing meat. Standing in my coat, scarf, hat, and gloves, it takes about five minutes of self-pep talks before I can muster the willpower to throw my layers off. (And even then, I’ve been known to start the call still wearing my hat and mittens.)
Walking anywhere outdoors is like playing Russian Roulette with my shoe collection.
In addition to deciding if my shoes match my outfit and if they’re appropriate for the activity ahead, now there’s a third fucking factor that comes into play: what are the odds that I’ll have to walk through two feet of snow or accidentally step in a puddle because it really did look like ice instead of water. And even if I can get to my destination without exposing them to snow and muddy water, there’s always salt and sand lurking in every crevice, waiting to leave fucking white streaks on every goddamn thing I own. And yes, I know, I could easily solve this problem by wearing my snow boots all the time instead of just most of the time, but you know, a girl can’t live in furry Doc Martens forever. Maybe I want to go out dancing and I don’t want my feet to get hot. Or maybe I’m going to a formal event where snow boots wouldn’t be appropriate. Or maybe, just maybe, I want to go somewhere without feeling like I’m dressed like Nanook of the goddamn North. But if I do, it’s at the peril of my lovely, lovely shoes. See you in spring, custom rainbow Chucks, I won’t gamble with your life.
The insane amount of laundry we create.
In June, I come home from a day out, and in the hamper goes a sundress or a pair of shorts and a tank, some underpants and bra, and that’s. It. But not this winter. Oooooh, no. I, of the perpetually cold, throw in jeans, a pair of leggings, long-sleeve undershirt, t shirt, cardigan, socks, underpants, and bra, and that’s only if we haven’t been skiing that day. All the layers required to keep my body temperature high enough to keep the blood moving in my veins produces a comical amount of laundry considering there are just the two of us. And of course, it’s all special micro-whatever fabric, each with its own specific and convoluted washing instructions. Oh, how I long for the long summer days of machine washable, tumble dry low cotton!
Opening my mailbox and finding my mail frozen to the bottom of the box.
So, this one might just be something that happens to us. Depends whether this phenomenon is natural or whether it happens because our mailman hates us and purposely drops our main in the snow before putting it in the box. (What, just because we order a lot of shit online and will sometimes go two or three days without checking our mail, forcing him to try to figure out how to cram more shit into an already full box, that’s justification for the man to dislike us? I think not.) Either way, there is something particularly shitty about having to pry one’s mail from a chunk of ice, hoping all along that the envelope on the bottom that’s getting destroyed is something dumb, (like a credit card offer,) and not something important, (like a statement from my insurance company.)
Okay, it’s not actually the wearing of socks that irritates me, it more…losing access to my feet. I tend to use my feet much like an orangutan, as a third hand. I find picking things up with my toes to be much faster and efficient than bending over, and using my foot to open a door and close it behind me when my arms are full just makes sense. So having to wear socks is like walking around in mittens minus the thumbs. (Which I guess would be exactly like walking around with socks over my hands. Shut up, like your similes are fucking flawless.) Anyway, I find this restriction to my alternate appendages annoying, and I long for the day of non-stop bare feet. (Even if it does mean I have to keep my toenails groomed and painted. Small price to pay.)
All the bitching Kyle does.
Not about the cold or snow. He’s happy as a clam as long as he can ski. And that asshole can walk through the Arctic tundra in a hoodie and be only a little chilly. No, all the bitching he does is about me. For starters, there’s the fact that I “steal all the blankets” when we sleep. Okay, sure, maybe when I wake up the giant mound of blankets is falling off my side of the bed while Kyle clings to the sheets. Some might even call this evidence damning. But nobody can prove a fucking thing because no one sees me do it, now do they? And besides, even if I do steal the blankets, it’s not my fucking fault because I’m fucking unconscious. And besides besides, maybe he should be better at defending himself so that I can’t take the blankets away. Has he ever thought of that? No. No, he hasn’t.
And god forbid I try to touch him. The second my hands make contact with his bare skin, he yelps like a dog that’s been stepped on. He then shouts that my hands are freezing and accuses me of not containing any blood. Which, granted, is pretty fucking hilarious, but not so useful if a girl is try to say, I don’t know, initiate a little sexy time. Because let me tell you, nothing makes one feel less like a sensual vixen than to have one’s husband shrike to keep those icicles the fuck away from him. (I offered to wear mittens once. I don’t think I need to tell you how well that went over.) And he’s also not at all thrilled with the sheer amount of clothing that I have to wear this time of year. As he so romantically put it, “Sometimes it just too much work to dig out all your bits.” Sexy.
They’ve told me that spring is around the corner. “Spring is on it’s way,” they tell me, as they try to convince me that swimsuit season is here.
Well, that bitch needs to hurry her whore-ass up, because winter has definitely overstayed its welcome!