I look outside, and I can’t help but wonder if hell really has frozen over. It’s like the molten core of our planet decided enough was enough and packed it in, taking it’s warm glowing warming glow with it. End result? Desolate, wintry wasteland, complete with bitter wind and endless, hardpacked snow drifts. On the way to the bus, I expect to be chased down by a pack of starving wolves, or perhaps encounter a group of migrating caribou on their way to warmer climes, musing over these crazy humans who aren’t doing the same.
The funny thing is, a small, childlike part of me rather enjoys this brutal, brutal winter weather. Given that the last time we had winter this bad was probably when I was in highschool, or perhaps even earlier, I suspect there’s a strong sense of nostalgia being triggered by these near-blizzard conditions. That part of me wants to grab a toboggan and go sledding in the freshly fallen powder. Or find a freshly-plowed-off outdoor skating rink. Or go home and curl up under the covers with a book, protected from the cold by the heavy blankets.
Apparently bitter, bitter cold brings back warm memories of childhood. How ironic.
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