A Winter without end

Winter fatigue is starting to set in. You know, those long months when there is no end in sight and one begins to feel that spring is a mere figment of your imagination. The proverbial carrot dangled in front of your nose as the days drag on and months clock up mileage but still it remains cold, and dreariness refuses to loosen her grip on the city.

I always start the year feeling optimistic about the weather. In the beginning, winter is gorgeous, especially when I am watching the snowfall from the snuggly comfort of my couch. Even when I venture outside, I revel in the crisp crunch of my boots as they connect with the padded pavement. It is the closest thing to the childish delight of splashing in a puddle. Even the trees look majestic in their naked beauty and I pause and tell myself that maybe winter isn't so bad after all.

But then, two months into the year, reality takes root. The lingering chill is no longer fresh and pleasant. It is morphed into a bone chilling unpleasantness that only serves to underscore the misery permeating the air. The wind is merciless and relentless, turning every snowfall into a torrent of sleet and mayhem.

Most telling us the demeanor of the trees. Where they once stood proud and showed off their gently frosted tips, they now cower in terror. Tormented as the rest of us are by the neverending punishment of the elements. Logically, I know the end is in sight, but for some reason, this feels like a winter without end.

The Seasons, They are A' Changing

The arrival of winter in New York is very dramatic. He is harsh and cruel, all the while presenting himself as a wolf in sheep's clothing. He must be very aware of his sheer abrasiveness, because every year he remembers that he has to seduce us. In order to lure us into a false sense of security, he unleashes his right hand vixen: Fall.

She enters with the utmost subtlety, working her way into our affections with her delicate crispness and much needed freshness. She knows exactly what we need after the lambast of summer. By the time she first makes her presence felt, we are so happy to see her that we momentarily forget that she is a harbinger of the worst.

It is only when she begins to unwrap her bronzed tendrils from around us leaving the door wide open for Mr. Frost to take up residence that we become aware of what is happening. By that time, it is too late and we are stuck in a quagmire of snow, frost and bitter cold.

I am dancing with the vixen right now, but the ice-cold grip of Mr. Frost is at hand. I can see his shadow on every corner just waiting to pounce.

I HATE WINTER!