After the warmest winter in my memory, the snow finally arrived yesterday. As I was driving through what can only be labeled as blizzard conditions after such an absence, I couldn't help but compare the freaky weather to the older brother you are constantly waiting for, hoping will show up to the family gathering, knowing that when you see him you will be flooded with a great mixture of relief and love. But then he arrives. He's late, the food is cold, he smells like cigarettes, and the only thing he brought with him were gas station donuts.
That's just a taste of what I felt yesterday.
It took me decades to fall in love with winter. I finally did after not having it for two solid years in Northern Ireland, and then having the most glorious, coldest, snowiest, most everything-is-shut-down-for-day winters ever. I knew then that winter was everything I dreamed of: warm drinks, stretchy pants, sweatshirts, an excuse to stay indoors, etc.
This year my kids have been playing outside in shorts since January.
It's disturbing to say the least.
And then winter shows up all late to the party and beautiful.
I take it back. Yesterday the snow wasn't like my always-late and often-absent brother. It was like your frenimy that you've decided you really DO like, but then you host a party where she is the guest of honor and then she shows up one hour late looking all amazing. You're trying really hard to hate her again, but that charm! That charisma! That excuse to stay inside and wear stretchy pants! All of it. You secretly love all of it.
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