My View From the cheap seats

I hate winter. I have always hated winter. But this year, winter has stopped being a season and become a repeat offender.

It’s personal now.

When I was younger, I was convinced summer was the enemy. I complained about the heat, the humidity, the way a Southern July can turn a simple walk to the mailbox into a medical event. I dreamed of cold air and snow, like someone who had never slipped on ice while carrying groceries.

Winter, I believed, would be a relief.

Older me knows better. Older me understands that winter isn’t here to refresh or invigorate. Winter is here to test my balance, my patience, and my trust in weather forecasts.

This year, winter didn’t just show up. It moved in.

First came a winter storm warning featuring the ominous phrase “half-inch of ice.” Around here, those words trigger immediate panic. Milk disappears. Bread vanishes. Everyone suddenly remembers how steep their driveway is.

The ice mostly turned out to be sleet, which is winter’s favorite trick. Not enough to justify the fear, but plenty enough to shut everything down and turn every surface into a lawsuit waiting to happen. Sidewalks became traps. Parking lots turned into Olympic events. I adopted that careful, penguin-like walk everywhere, arms out, dignity gone.

Just as we began to recover — emotionally, if not physically — winter returned for an encore.

The very next weekend brought another winter storm warning, this time with snow. Not symbolic snow. Not “you have to squint to see it” snow. Five inches of honest-to-goodness snow in a place where a dusting is usually described with words like “historic” and “unprecedented.”

Schools closed confidently. Roads emptied. The South stood at windows, staring in disbelief, as if snow were a prank being played on us personally.

Snow is lovely when viewed from indoors, preferably through glass, while holding something warm. The moment you have to walk on it, drive on it, or remember that it will eventually melt and refreeze into ice, the charm wears off quickly.

Cold now feels aggressive. I open the door and the cold hits me like it’s been waiting. My fingers go numb. My toes retreat entirely. The nose, of course, is winter’s favorite target. Always the nose.

People love to say, “There’s no bad weather, only bad clothing.” Those people are liars. I have worn enough layers to qualify as a walking laundry pile and was still cold. At some point, more clothes don’t help. They just make it harder to sit down.

Some people claim to enjoy this season. These are the winter sport people — those who see snow and think, “I should strap boards to my feet and fling myself downhill.” I do not trust these individuals. Anyone who voluntarily increases their odds of meeting an orthopedic surgeon is not someone I envy.

What I really want, especially after two consecutive winter storm weekends, is to be a bear.

Bears have winter figured out. They eat, get comfortable, and opt out. No forecasts. No ice warnings. No penguin walking. They sleep through the nonsense and wake up when life improves.

The rest of us, apparently, are expected to function normally.

So yes, I hate winter. Older me has become a full-time winter curmudgeon. I’ve accepted it. I’ve embraced it. Complaining about winter may be my only winter sport — and unlike skiing, it’s safest when done indoors.

Which is exactly where I plan to stay.