I've lived in middle America all of my life, which means I've done winter a few times.
At the beginning of each winter, though, everyone here has to readjust to the cold, and the older you get, the more difficult it is, except for one thing: as you age, you tend to drive slower. Like a stopped clock being right at least twice a day, there's bound to come a time when that slow driving is appropriate, usually the first snow/ice of the season, when you don't look like you're driving slow because you're old; you look like you're driving slow because you have common sense that the young whippersnappers don't have. But you're really just old.
I'm struggling to adjust. Today it snowed, and I could not find the new Isotoner gloves I bought just before Thanksgiving. I've worn them a total of one time, and now they are lost. The bones in my hands ached from the cold.
My big black parka kept unzipping from the bottom. I hate when that happens.
My nose ran when I walked across the parking lot. There were no tissue balls in the pockets from last year.
I had to take a heavy load on a dolly across the parking lot. In the snow. Dollies don't have snow tires. They should.
When I left work, I forgot that my car had sat outside all day and that I would have to scrape the windows. No scraper on board.
But I did not do what my young co-worker confessed to today: turning on the wipers and opening the door, which resulted in snow being swept into his car. "Rookie mistake," he said.
I plan to be ready to tomorrow. I will actually wear boots, which means I will not have to putter across the parking lot like Tim Conway's shuffling old man. And I will find those gloves before I walk out that door and zip off to work at 25 mph. I will wear Chapstick. I will play Christmas music at my desk and roast--not chestnuts--but my toes--not on an open fire--but at my space heater.
Winter is here. Tomorrow, I will be ready.