Like everyone being battered by the nasty winter weather, I see Mother Nature handing me lemons. Actually, she’s not handing them to me; she’s pulling them out of an old-fashioned ice box somewhere in the Arctic tundra and chucking them at my exposed head.
But guess what, Mother Nature, I love frozen lemonade, and I know how to make it from your stupid lemon grenades.
You’ve underestimated me. You’re so giddy from the thrill of torturing millions of people and stranding a bazillion travelers, that’s you’ve forgotten the deep reservoir of resilience that resides beneath my puffy down coat and the subsequent four additional layers of fleece.
To you, I proclaim, “I love this weather. Bring it on! You and your frozen lemons don’t scare me.” What’s the worse that could happen? I die of complications from a lemon concussion?
Oh, I don’t think so.
Are you, gentle readers, not feeling the love? Are you fixated on the annoying salt dust that’s all over your new boots and your old coat? Are your wood floors ruined because pipes burst and your kids can’t figure out how to take off their boots in the “mudroom” you fashioned (from mud and an old beach towel) at the edge of your garage?
I was too, honestly, until this: I realized that this weather is the greatest agent of social change in my adult life to date.
Check it out: I now have something to say to absolutely everyone in the universe. Cliche to discuss weather? Probably. I don’t care. I’ve got a golden ticket into conversation. This morning I discussed how long I waited at the bus with the most un-chatty person in my office. Oh, she chatted back today, alright. She had to outdo me with her wait time, of course. So she won, but who cares? We chatted.
To the gruff old security guard in my building, I offered this opening salvo, “Can you believe this cold?”
How could he resist me?
My boss and I discussed how many layers it takes to survive public transportation. My mother and I have texted about the barbarism that is winter 2014. So what if I am complaining and asking my Mommy to come to Chicago and rub my feet? It’s still communication and there’s plenty more where that came from.
Jeff’s out of town this week, which means that before we collapse in our respective cities at night, we have the obligatory spousal phone conversation. During the summer, we are so beat down by our days we can’t think of anything noteworthy to say. Not last night. He had a snow story; I had a snow and a windchill story. Then he trumped me rhetorically when he described how he slipped on the ice. Plus, he got to regale me with stories about how some cities (*cough* DC *cough*) cannot handle snow. We must have talked through meteorological issues for a good seven-minutes.
That, people, is what you call keeping the sizzle in your marriage.
So, thank you Mother Nature for giving me sound bites (and frost bite, you Bitch) for every situation in the foreseeable future. You and your lemons don’t scare me. Keep it coming– I’ve got a dinner party in a few weeks, and I’ll need some small talk material.