The Abdominal Snowman

At some point in the last, say 15 years, I have developed an intense aversion to snow. Waking up in the morning to see a carpet of snow on the ground should remind me of Christmas, or winter vacation or something. Instead, it fills me with dread. Particularly of driving.

I wasn't always like this. I remember having a '78 Ford Fiesta that I tooled around in my Senior year of High School. I remember it snowed particularly heavy that winter, but I don't remember having any problem with it. Now, though, snowfall creates a haven for razor-bladed butterflies in my stomach.

I wish I could say it was because I once lost control of my car in a snowstorm and plowed into a highly populated bunny hutch, crushing all the adorable rabbits under the unforgiving weight of my tires, but I can't. I mean, maybe I've blocked it out, but I can recall no snow-related trauma. (fog trauma, sure, but who hasn't lost a friend or two from poison fog?)

My current operating theory is that my psychic prowess has steadily increased over the years, and I am only now feeling either:

• the terrified telepathic cries of snowflakes falling to certain death, or 
• channeling the wandering spirits of those pioneers who slowly froze to death in the western wastelands of yore

Either way, it's bad news. I'm either going to have to live with the anxiety that a constant pervasive sense of suffering provides, or learn to savor the pain of others like a cool lemonade on a hot day.

Comments

[Marcus Aurelius]

Zah? Cool lemonades savor the pain of others on a hot day?

Oh.

Wait. I get it.

Never mind.

[Juan]

Or, you could just move to San Diego. Today it's 63 degrees and sunny.

There is the constant fear of the entire state of California sliding into the Ocean, but it's a small price to pay to avoid the snow.