Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Winter and I, we have a deal. For three months of the year, I can sock away all the brownies, French bread and butter my little heart desires. And oxtail stew, biscuits and gravy. Hazelnut chocolate, cream soups, peanuts, almonds, lasagna, and cheese of all colors from all countries.
Why? Because when it’s winter -- cold and rainy – a trench coat or that woolen muumuu I call a sweater can hide a multitude of calories.
Who’s to know that under all the fabric -- coats and sweaters and scarves -- there’s suddenly so much more of me to love. As for the zipper on my jeans -- who’s to know what a painful trek it takes to reach the summit. Who’s to know the zipper may even stop trying, midway.
Come spring, I’ll pay dearly for the follies of winter, and get back to rabbit food and serious hiking and running again. But it’s really no worse than all the other spring chores -- weeding, taxes.
This year, though, something has gone awry. An agreement has been broken. I don’t want to be a snitch, let’s just say, I didn’t break it. I came skipping out to meet winter, bearing carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, but winter did not come to meet me. Not even half way.
It’s been like summer around here, not sweater-weather, not even tie-a-sweatshirt-around-your-hips weather. My zipper and I find ourselves very much exposed, stuck between a rock and a soft place.
Thank you very much, global warming. As if melting the polar icecaps wasn’t bad enough. More on Patch.