Winter stories

Happy Groundhog Day! I totally forgot about it, which is unlike me. Apparently, there will be six more weeks of winter.

That's a little less daunting to me today than it was yesterday at this time, when I still had this apprehension hanging over my head. That apprehension reached its natural apex around 6:15 yesterday evening, near a dumpster behind the Berkley Front.

See, I take one major spill every winter. I can't predict how or when, but I always know it will come, usually in front of a bunch of people and/or while wearing a skirt. It's a lot of what-if to live with. Once it comes, though, the pressure is officially off, and I can be all nonchalant about snow and ice.

Last night was the night. One minute, chatting with Alice about how we both are wearing high heeled boots in the snow and ice, the next moment, on my ass in a giant, cold puddle of slush. I cut my finger and bruised my hip, but the worst part was the total soaking of my jeans. So Alice and I went into the bar and found Deborah and Tim, where we learned that Tim had also fallen into what sounds like the same puddle, getting his jeans similarly soaked.

This past week, I only worked two days. It went like this: Sick day, snow day, work, work, snow day. Winter is the time to be a teacher. Also, summer.