gray up above and gray down below

I know what you’re doing, Boston.

I know what you’re doing, you miserable frozen tundra, full of six-foot tall snow mountains defiled by dog pee and car exhaust. I know what you’re doing with your epic commutes that take three extra hours, the minutes ticking by on those enormous digital clocks they installed at the Copley T station instead of, I don’t know, using that money to make train doors that don’t freeze open at the outdoor stops. I know what you’re doing with your  sinister icy patches that exacerbate my clumsy-person PTSD, the knowledge that this winter’s inevitable wipeout is just waiting for me and my tailbone and my poor, long-suffering, perpetually-bruised patellas. I know what’s going on.

You’re trying to break my goddamn spirit, and I’m not going to let you.

We’ve spent seven long, hideous Februarys together, Boston, and while it is true that you are a horrible fucking bastard from January through March you are certainly at your ugliest during this, the cruelest of months. But lately it’s occurred to me that I’m somehow complicit in your reign of snowy terror: to paraphrase Eleanor Roosevelt, no one can make you feel homicidal without your consent, and I’ve spent the greater part of my twenties letting you have your wintery way with me.

Not this time.

I’ve got a plan, Boston. I’ve got twenty-eight days of gray, slushy hell staring me down, and I am going to get through them with a smile on my face if it kills me (which, all things considered, it very well might). I’ve got four rockin’ all-girls weekends lined up. I’ve got an Oscar party to plan. I’ve got a kilo of Emergen-C to consume, a sewing project to start, and the first season of Vampire Diaries on its way from Netflix. I’ve got a story to finish and a tattoo artist to find. I’ve got twenty-eight salads to eat and some frivolous-but-amazing Pottery Barn furniture to purchase. I have hamstrings to stretch in front of new episodes of The Good Wife, and I’ve got celebrities to obsess about over at completely delightful. Do you hear me, Boston? I am not afraid of you, and I will beat your ass.

But first, I’m going to need some more coffee, and possibly a hat.