I haven’t written in a couple weeks because all I can think about is the weather.  Unprecedented they say, and I’m struggling to stay warm like everybody else on the East Coast. But I surrender, I’m going to write about the snow even though I’m absolutely sick of it. I’m sick of looking at snow, sick of complaining about snow, and yet, after last night’s snow, there is more in tomorrow’s forecast.

It’s been all about wool and layers and a down-filled coat and my fur-line boots with the non-skid bottoms and insulated gloves. And lip balm, lots and lots of lip balm. March is only a week away; but I can’t wait for this winter to be over. At least I have neighbors who will drive me to the grocery store or home from the library or clinic if I ask. I have ventured out on the rare occasion when the sun was shining; I found the one route with the least amount of ice, although it does mean walking in the middle of the road. But thankfully, this isn't Boston; and I’m not dependent on the T to get around. The store where I work in Ptown is usually closed during the winter unless I feel like opening on the weekends. I did, for Valentine’s Day, and we had some business, but it cost me a fortune to get shoveled out and I think I’ll wait until the latest three foot drift in front of the door melts before I do it again.

In the meantime, I realized last week my behavior has been very similar to how I acted immediately after 9/11. Yes, yes, it’s just snow, no planes are crashing into buildings half a mile away, no horrible smell, no living behind barricades, but paralyzing nonetheless. I’ve been trapped in the house alone not knowing if the power was going to stay on and washing clothes by hand in the tub because carrying a basket of laundry anywhere was more or less impossible. Oh, and I’ve probably gained five pounds, which happened after 9/11 too, since all I’ve done is eat and read – Lila by Marilynne Robinson, it ends with a blizzard, Alan Cumming’s Not My Father’s Son, heart-breaking as well as heart-warming, and The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton, which was perfect for lying on the sofa for days on end. And I’m not alone. I finally went to the writer's workshop which has been cancelled the last few weeks, and not one of us in it has been writing. You'd think we would, having nothing else to do, but all of us were shut down and incapable of anything close to contemplation.

So, snow. Not life threatening unless you caught in the frigid cold, but beyond our control and utterly, completely, unquestionably boring. 

I don’t like it.