When the snow first started falling in late November, I remember saying, “oh, how pretty!” Now, late January, with a cold or virus or some such crud that’s been hanging on since mid-December, rising before dawn to find a fresh new inch of snow on the driveway I have to navigate down before I slide my way to work causes me to create a blizzard of my own out of expletives. I’m sick of winter. Even next week’s visit by the groundhog can’t bring me good news, because even if he sees his shadow, six more weeks of winter is what we’ll see, minimum. I have never considered myself someone with any type of seasonal affective disorder, but these past few days, stepping out of the shower onto a cold, tile floor, putting on my makeup in the dark, I’ve been a bit teary.
It was negative seven degrees last Thursday, and as I walked from my office to my car, a tear that fell from my computer-strained eyes as I exited the building literally froze to the edge of my eyeball. I didn’t appreciate the beauty of the snow falling in crystalline shards around me. I hate to invest in a light box, just to have that not help my mood. Maybe the money would be better spent investing in updating my resume. Who knows. I’m willing to wait it out to see if this malaise is transitory. I sure hope it is.