A month and half ago, I came up with a brilliant idea. After a year of blogging, I decided to go full throttle. I would post on my blog every day. They would be good posts, too. They would be so great that Ernest Hemingway would come back from the dead just to let me know that my blog was “pretty okay.”
43 posts later, I was going strong. I felt like I had done pretty decent work and 43 posts is nothing to sneeze at. I had momentum in my favor and there was nothing that was going to stop me now.
As it turns out, though, there is one thing that could derail that plan.
All winter,Kansas City has been a snow-free zone. As a child, I would have been distraught. How are you supposed to enjoy winter if you aren’t sliding down an icy hill on cheap plastic or freezing your fingers off making a “man” out of your front yard flurries?
Then I grew up. I realized, not to overstate it, that snow is the worst thing that has ever existed on the planet except for possibly Hitler or any dish containing peas. It makes your car slide around and it gets your shoes and socks wet. You have to spend half of your day thawing the frozen ice crystals that have attached themselves to you, only to have to return to the blizzard-like conditions and start the process all over again.
This is the world I woke up in this morning. After months of moderately cold, but very pleasant winter weather, I was greeted with a car that was whiter than the crowd at a James Taylor concert. The snow piles came past my ankles, dampening the hem of my pants and making me cranky like a big, adult baby.
All day, I sat at work listening to person after person come inside and say “It’s really snowy out there.” There was no escape from the wintry prison. Each conversation consisted of weather, the traffic because of the weather, what the weather would do, how much different the weather was, and whether this weather would weather away or would we be forced to weather more of this particular weather. In summary, there was a lot of weather talk.
I arrived home, fully prepared to get to work. I had things to do. There was no time to succumb to the temptation of a nice night on the couch while the snow drifts wildly outside.
My wife had other plans.
“It’s a chili day,” she said, handing me a bowl of my dinner.
Now, everyone knows that there is nothing to be done on a winter day if there is chili around. By eating chili on a day like this, you are essentially waving your white flag, admitting that your tasks have no prayer of getting done at all. You eat the chili, sit down under a blanket, most likely with a cup of tea, and enjoy a good movie or decent book. Your tasks are dead to you.
I had to trek on, though. I couldn’t let my dream of 366 posts die here. I was not going to let some overblown precipitation get the best of me. I scoured the annals of the internet for a topic of interest. All I could think of was my chili-breath and the arctic like conditions enveloping my apartment.
So here is my 44th post of the year. I am writing this in a near-coma that is caused by my body digesting chili and attempting to go into a state of hibernation. The dream is still alive, though.
Suck on that, snow.