Sunday, December 15, 2013

I don't hate the snow, really.

Snowfall is a sign that my world is about to close in. I can do about a block radius, if I'm lucky. I live on a good block, so I can get to the gym or Starbucks, the pool, and the American Museum of the Moving Image, or the cineplex, usually within a day of the snow's arrival.

The subway is harder to get to at two blocks, especially since those bastards at the Salvation Army have never, ever cleared the snow. Once I'm on the subway, I'm probably going to be fine if I'm headed to Manhattan.

Walking any distance is difficult, tedious, tiring and frustrating. I'm in the coffee shop right now because it would take so long to go the one block home that my coffee would get cold. I'm not sure I could keep my balance while holding a cup either.

There's little point in asking anyone what the snow is like, either. They don't see the same things that I have learned to. Light snowfall is trivial to most, but hobbles me even more than I already have been.

I don't hate the snow, I still think it can be lovely, still love the idea of it. I despise, instead, what it does to me. 'Tis the season to be stuck at home, making rare forays into the world, remembering winters past. How jolly.

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