Thursday, March 3, 2011

That's it.

I am officially done with winter. The honeymoon is over, the bloom is off the rose, it's been swell but the swelling's gone down, it's been fun if your definition of 'fun' is 'something overly protracted, uncomfortable, inconvenient, and really not particularly fun at all.' That's it, winter, you're cut off, adios, BUHbye now, don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out. Have a nice life.

I'm sick of gritty rutted and uneven patches of ice at the side of the road, of potholes, of puddles of dirty, salty runoff that spray up onto my clothes. Never having clean clothing. Having to find places to stash armloads of grimy, salty, grit-shedding waterproof gear when I go out with friends. (Where do you put a pannier, set of rainpants, gloves, helmet and jacket, in a pub or a theatre or a booth at Zack's Diner, without taking up someone's seat? For that matter, how do you gracefully shed a pair of rainpants when you arrive at the social event you were heading to? "Excuse me while I bend over, unzip my ankles, and ignominiously wriggle out of my pants, looking like I'm about to strip in front of all your guests...") I'm sick of trying to juggle helmet, gloves, hat, groceries, and my wallet, at the grocery store. Of wearing so damn much clothing all the time. Of having to carry around wet-wipes so I can clean my face off when I get where I'm going.

I'm sick of sniffling my way along the street, or the bike path. I'm sick of there only being one bike path I can use.

I'm tired of being shoved out into traffic by the snowbanks. Of having to decide whether to worry about the oncoming cars or the upcoming slush-ridge. Of my hood, or coat, blocking my view when I try to shoulder check. Of the patches of slush that accumulate at the edge of the road. Of puddles. Of potholes. Did I mention the potholes? Of having bits of my bike gum up with crap and malfunction, when replacing them will be kind of pointless before spring. Of having to watch that my pedals don't catch on the chunks of semi-solid snow that have calved from the dirty snowbanks and are lying in the middle of the bike lane. Of boots. (God, am I sick of wearing boots.)

And then there's sweeping the entrance of my apartment every day because of all the road salt and grains of asphalt, not to mention the blackish puddles of water that form under my bike on the floor. That's it, that's all, I'm done. I am done with winter.

I get the sinking feeling, though, that winter is probably not done with me.