Winter.

Of all the winters I have lived through, I can truthfully say I have only really enjoyed one. I was living in Hawai'i where it never got below 75 degrees, my favorite rooftop bar was featuring half off holiday mojitos, and even Santa wore board shorts. What could be more perfect? Well, believe it or not there are people (strange, senseless, irrational people) who would disagree. These people wait all year to zip up their Carhartt's, gas up their snowmobiles, and hit the trails aided only by their courage and a thermos full of Schnapp's laced hot chocolate. Yes, these people actually exist, and they all live in my home town.

Each year, on the morning of the first snow fall, all the families of the small midwestern town I call home pull their snowmobiles infront of St. Mary's Catholic Church to watch old Father McKenna sprinkle each sparkling Ski-doo with holy water. With gloved hands clasped in prayer and tears in their goggled covered eyes these families not only welcome winter, they celebrate it. I am not from one of those families. My earliest memory of winter is not of snowmen and sleighrides, it's of my dad, wrapped in his bathrobe, running up and down our stairs in an attempt to keep warm while simultaneously cursing God and the furnace repair man.

When I was six years old my mother told me the story of the little girl who decided to lick the ice crystals off the flag pole at school. Her tongue stuck to the metal and she never. talked. again. For the next 4 years I refused to even put ice cubes in my KoolAide. And while my fear of going through life as a mute kept me indoors drinking ice-less beverages during the winter months the rest of my town bravely headed down to the lake to engage in the only winter activity more popular than drunken snowmobiling: ice fishing. Diesl trucks pull ice shanties bigger than my first apartment onto the frozen water so that Carhartt wearing fishermen can sit around a hole, and wait. One winter my dad's friends actually convinced him to take part in this ludicrous activity. Not bothering with a shanty they hauled my brother's row boat down to the lake shore taking with them their fishing poles, a pick axe, and a bottle of scotch. My dad returned four hours later red nosed and fishless to find my mother waiting for him, with our new priest, who she had invited for dinner that night. All I can say is that it's a good thing we're Catholic.

For me winter means getting up early (something I try to avoid at all costs even if it means sleeping in my clothes and stacking nutrigrain bars in my glove compartment) to start my car and scrape the windshield. And, if you are, like me, one of the garage-less there is no way to get around this heinous task. Believe me, I have tried. In college my dread-headed next door neighbor convinced me that you could save at least 5 minutes by skipping the scraping and just throwing hot water on your windshield, so I did. Luckily, I managed to avoid ever cracking the glass. I also managed to successfully freeze myself into my car after using the hot water method to open an ice covered door and then driving the 15 minutes to class in subzero temps.

Perhaps the only redeeming quality about the winter season (besides going on vacation somewhere tropical) is the added exercise. I know what you're thinking, "Exercise? Who would want to head outside in the cold for additional exercise?" Clearly you're not taking into account what attempting to push a car up a steep and ice covered driveway does to your heart rate. How hauling old towels, straw, sawdust, birdseed and hamster bedding (just a few of the many items I've used) outside in an attempt to give your wheels some traction can really build your muscles. And finally the extra calories burned when after a month of pushing, and pulling, and salting you give up and just park your car on the street, where your mailbox used to be before the snow plow came by, and walk.

So here's to winter: To getting rear ended before you've even left the parking lot. To ackward conversations over Aunt Mindy's meatballs at forced family gatherings. To black ice bruises and frost bitten fingers. To seasonal depression and bottles of scotch. To ice covered windshields, straw covered driveways, and the little girl who licked the flag pole. And to everyone who must endure her wrath, the best of luck.